


put it into words

by sirnando



Series: stringing words together [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 70
Words: 27,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22297060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirnando/pseuds/sirnando
Summary: It began as a mechanism to fill the silence in between the moments they were doing business and fucking. Neither had any idea what to do with this vacant time — unaccustomed to the idea of small talk and both too awkward to acknowledge any true thought that may have been floating in their heads—so Alfie had started talking.****This is simply a collection of the tiny things I've written either out of thin air or based on word prompts from Tumblr. It's the first "part" in the series, since this whole thing has gotten quite long
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: stringing words together [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733176
Comments: 75
Kudos: 128





	1. talk

It began as a mechanism to fill the silence in between the moments they were doing business and fucking. Neither had any idea what to do with this vacant time — unaccustomed to the idea of small talk and both too awkward to acknowledge any true thought that may have been floating in their heads—so Alfie had started talking. Something about some girl that he’d been fooling around with at his home when they were both 14, how he had to hide her in his closet when his parents returned. He showed Tommy the scar on his right temple that his father had gifted him upon discovering her wedged in there. And Tommy discovered that he quite liked it when Alfie told his stories, so it became a routine.

Tommy usually prompted the act by asking Alfie a question about some mark on his body—nonchalantly, of course, wary against revealing that he was already humming in anticipation. He enjoyed listening to the stories almost as much as he liked watching Alfie tell them—eyebrows knit together, hands moving animatedly along with the events. There was something comforting about him momentarily forgetting their wicked world, simply engrossed in the retelling.

Yet over time and nearing the end of the scars that Tommy could ask about, Alfie simply began with “Have I ever spoken about…” —not waiting for Tommy to reply with yes or no, because the answer would always be no. Alfie was brimming with tales that oftentimes bordered on fiction —Tommy mused—yet with Alfie’s biography he was never quite entirely sure.

Alfie told of his battles with twenty men—fending them off with nothing more than a razorblade and the “will-power of a god” —about the dog-sized rats that he had to fight out from his bed, and the one time that he had crawled out of a burning room while temporarily blinded. Yet amidst all of them, Tommy had a favorite he kept coming back to.

He only ever asked when they lay in bed at night, moments before Tommy rose to leave. Concealed by the shadows, the only source of light coming from the end of Tommy’s cigarette, it was easier to ask. 

“How’s it looking, Alfie?” was how he initiated it. Alfie would respond with “Looking up, mate, yeah, looking real good…” before conjuring up a story about the two of them together, isolated deep in the woods—something they could, but never would, have. It was more of a saga really, a chaptered adventure rather than a single story because Alfie always added some variation to them—either Cyril had ran off, or Tommy was suffering through a cold or Alfie had burnt their dinner to a crisp.

Tommy would reach out across the mattress at some point, find one of Alfie’s hands and entwine their fingers. It was a small gesture, but Alfie always had to focus on his breathing at that point, to ensure it didn’t audibly hitch. 

The stories all ended the same way: “But they’ll be ok, yeah, they’ll be just fine.” Tommy would linger for a few seconds afterwards, consumed by the idea that there may be some truth to Alfie’s words; there may just be a possibi-

But only for a few seconds, before he was sliding his hand out from Alfie’s and rising because there was business to be done in the morning. No use in dwelling on dreams.


	2. words

The letter Tommy received after his failed attempt at murdering Alfie was not the first. There was an entire stack of them stashed in Tommy’s office drawer that he had collected for months.

They came weekly—biweekly if Alfie was feeling particularly chatty—and were usually no more than two or three lines. Small snippets taken from events that had occurred in Alfie’s life, his observations, snide remarks.

_I saw a bug that resembled you today, mate. Nasty little thing it was._

Tommy never responded to them. There were never any questions and he assumed that Alfie sent them without expectations of hearing back anyway. They were Alfie’s equivalent of sending flowers, Tommy remarked, a different form of _I’m thinking of you_ —thinking of him and through whatever the nature of this relationship that they had was.

_I’m starting to think Cyril’s getting too fat, lazy fucker that he is._

Tommy saved every single one—awaited their arrival and then read and reread them in the mornings as if they were the paper. He’d memorized most, could tell you where the words were positioned on the page, what the date written in the corner was and whether Alfie had signed or not.

_Do you ever wish the situation was different?_

This one came a month before the incident. Tommy had frozen in place upon reading it, stunned by the variation. The answer to the question had arranged itself in his head almost immediately, but he refused to write it out. There was no point in breaking this pattern now. No point in dwelling.

It was the only one he burned.


	3. sacrifice

I’d like to think Alfie has an easier time making personal sacrifices to appease Tommy because Thomas is a very “my way or the highway” type of person. 

It’s quite sweet, really, just how attentive Alfie is to Tommy’s reactions once they move in together - making note of every time there’s a nose scrunch or quiet sigh. Tommy (quite oblivious) only picks up on these sacrifices when Alfie starts doing more obvious non-Alfie types of things: trimming his beard more often (Tommy was always rubbing his cheeks after kissing spells); steeping the tea for a shorter time (he’d swallow hard after each sip, Alfie noticed, making a face after each one); shooing his beloved Cyril off from sitting on the couches because Tommy would brush at his coat and pants for a good five minutes after sitting. 

And because Tommy begins feeling a tinge of guilt for all of these sacrifices that Alfie is willing to make without him asking, Tommy decided to make one of his own and keep pretending that he didn’t hear Alfie sing to him once he thought Tommy was sound asleep – but not because Tommy liked it, of course.


	4. beauty

Beauty was a word that neither of them used very often—let alone said aloud. It was foreign to both of their vocabularies, seeing as they were too prideful and—more so—insecure about the reaction that it would cause. 

Of course it crossed Alfie’s mind quite often—it was difficult to know Tommy and not have the word gnawing at you constantly. It was more of an observation at this point, rather than a compliment—almost an injustice to use such a bland adjective. He’d practiced saying it aloud a few times, actually, changing the intonation and speed and context within which it’d be said—usually in scenarios where Tommy’s attention was diverted and he’d most likely not hear—but every scenario seemed more ridiculous than the previous.

The moments where Alfie looked beautiful scared Tommy—tested his self control. Because in the moments where Alfie had forgotten about his surroundings—when the crease between his brows finally relaxed and the scars on his cheeks seemingly softened into nonexistence—the urge to tell him, to lock the timeframe into place and ensure that Alfie was in this state of peace permanently, suffocated Tommy. It was then that the word threatened to tumble off of his tongue, but he bit it back because life had taught him to not dwell on daydreams.


	5. hands

Alfie always had an unusual attachment to Tommy’s hands, oftentimes taking one of them and closing his eyes, running a thumb over the knuckles back and forth in an attempt to memorize the sensation. 

Perhaps this was due to the fact that his hands were one of the few aspects which were forced to remain constant. With increased time and prosperity, Tommy’s clothes changed, his home changed, his language changed. Yet the calluses and scars on his hands remained the same—markings which tethered him to his origins in Birmingham, to the version of Tommy that Alfie had first gotten to know. 

And Tommy had always been opposed to excessive affection. Firmly believed that having his hands kissed revealed a certain vulnerability which he could not afford to have. Yet his opinion changed considerably upon meeting Alfie. Hand kisses now represented something different—that through the action, for a brief moment Alfie transferred the work and worry Tommy had embedded in his hands onto himself. For a brief moment, Tommy was weightless.


	6. scent

Thomas Shelby tended to dedicate his memory to business knowledge only. No need to take up space with unnecessary nostalgia or fondness. Though there was an exception—a certain moment he gripped onto tightly.

Tommy stood in his own distillery, a buzzing in his veins and a dryness in his throat, with Alfie Solomons before him, blathering on about something inconsequential. It had been months of silence between them, yet Alfie had always been capable of resuming the dynamic naturally, disregarding all formalities.

"Coal and smoke and horses." He was suddenly describing Tommy’s scent, eyes peering into him. Unflattering smells to have settled onto your skin, Tommy remembered thinking, though his attention was more firmly situated on the accelerating pulse in neck.

"Back where you belong, Tommy." Yes, back exactly where he belonged—an arms length from touching Alfie’s face. He hadn’t noticed how terribly his own body ached for him until he was struggling to keep a steady hand whilst pouring Alfie a glass of gin.

Horses and coal and smoke and _Alfie’s scent_ —something which he had neglected to define for himself. Yet suddenly it was washing over hi—no, it was suffocating him, after months of being deprived. He was dizzy, a thousand images flooding to his eyes—a bed, a candle, their fingers intertwined, Alfie’s skin flaking at the temples and his lips mouthing indecipherable words that Tommy was desperately trying to grasp but—

"Mate?" 

Alfie’s voice startled him back into the present moment, his head suddenly drained of the chaos. Only one phrase remained, echoing off the walls— _I’m in love…_


	7. home

They had an unspoken agreement that their meetings would take place at Alfie’s house. Less family around, making it less probable that they would need to explain themselves at any point.

Tommy’s presence became more visible within the house after a few months had passed—tiny signs that someone other than Alfie spent a considerable amount of time there. It would be an occasional sock lying on the ground, a half finished cup of tea on the counter or fingerprints staining the mirror. Alfie was particularly fond of the warmth Tommy left behind on the right side of the bed, the sheets still molded into the shape of his body. He would shift over into the spot, seizing the opportunity to drink in the lingering heat—the last bits of Tommy that he had until the next time.

But in the end, it was a house—a building that Tommy held no attachment to and which was owned by a man that Tommy continually tried to convince himself held no meaning for him either.

-

The argument began over some nonsensical disagreement that neither remembered—a typical way in which these phone conversations ended over the phone nowadays, it seemed. 

The fight was escalating. Tommy’s anger always lay at the source of the initial disagreement, but eventually evolved into a materialization of an unspoken insecurity he was choking on—the fear that if Alfie grew frustrated enough, he’d find someone else that fulfilled the same dirty purpose that Tommy did and leave him. 

He was making some point in a voice that was quickly becoming a yell until Alfie interrupted him on the other side of the line. _Come home to me._ Whether it was a slip of the tongue or a calculated choice of words was unclear to him—but Tommy would never ask for clarification. Underneath the phrase lay a certain implication of domesticity—an idea that Tommy, ironically, was not ready to commit to. 

His reply cut his tongue on the way out of his mouth, _I am fucking home._


	8. sex

The first place they had sex was against the cabinet that Alfie had threatened to splatter Tommy’s brains over during their first encounter. It was Tommy’s idea—his devious way of satisfying some deeply embedded metaphorical curiosity.

The quality of the sex itself was fine. It was exactly the degree of roughness and pain that Tommy had imagined and anticipated—not implying, of course, that he frequently imagined this scene. Yet Tommy was still left with a sensation that there was something missing—a hollow feeling in his stomach which made him consider perhaps there should be more to this exchange than stripping below the waist only and having his pelvis hammered into a cabinet monotonously. Perhaps he was dangerously curious whether the scars on Alfie’s cheeks extended far below his collar or if his hands performed better when they weren’t racing against the hands of a clock.

And perhaps this eagerness to find answers to these questions had leaked into Tommy’s eyes because he’d hardly begun buttoning his trousers when his chin found itself between Alfie’s thumb and forefinger, the words _Let’s try this again then, mate, yeah?_ floating in the air between them.


	9. romance

Romance to them represented something other than what was conventionally understood. Romance to them was Alfie cleaning the blood of another man off of Tommy’s brow or Tommy helping clear a corpse from the middle of Alfie’s bakery floor. It was Alfie telling Tommy to fuck off with a smile plastered onto his face and Tommy letting Alfie kiss him during a moment where they were not having sex and both of them agreeing that Italians were the vermin of their species. 

Romance to them was Tommy pulling the trigger on that beach. It was his brand of sacrifice—an attempt to ease Alfie’s misery and strip him of this life quickly, as opposed to allowing the cancer to take its vicious time. To demonstrate to Alfie how far he was willing to exert himself for him. And it would be the most romantic gesture Tommy ever made.


	10. affection

They were both affectionate beings, the serenity of being with someone they loved overwhelming them at night. Tommy used very few words, usually unwilling or simply incapable of forming descriptions for the emotions he felt, so he stuck to actions. Almost immediately after the light had faded in the room, he would nuzzle himself into Alfie’s neck, fingers threading into his beard. There would sometimes be an attempt at synchronizing their breathing: Tommy’s approach to uniting them a step further, something which both shocked and warmed Alfie the first time he realized it was happening. 

And though Alfie was much more adept with words, he tried to mirror Tommy’s chosen language—to make sure nothing was lost in translation. He’d wrap his arms around the frail frame curled up by his chest, lips pressed against Tommy’s forehead. It was silent, but in the moments where the moonlight peaked out from behind the curtains and illuminated Tommy’s face, groggy eyelids drooping over blue irises—Alfie could not withhold himself. _You’re precious_ , the phrase sparkling in Tommy’s core.

When the sun rose, Tommy’s body hardened back into its familiar shell, but Alfie’s words still rattled within—a constant reminder of what was awaiting him if he could just survive until the next darkness overcame them.


	11. safe

Perhaps it was silly that two gangsters, who had held one other at gunpoint on multiple occasions, were so immensely preoccupied with each other’s safety. But in truth, neither saw much difference between them and a “traditional relationship” anymore—their lovers quarrels were simply much more passionate.

Neither explicitly acknowledged that the safety of the other was constantly gnawing at their head, but the signs were there. Tommy could see it in the furrow between Alfie’s brows, when his eyes found the new scar or scab on Tommy’s skin. His injuries seemed more dramatic because of his paleness, but nonetheless Tommy would always attach some comment to Alfie’s quiet observation. _Me and Arthur had shooting practice on some of Sabini’s men yesterday_ —an affirmation that he was safe, wrapped up into a simple comment. 

And Thomas Shelby was not entirely cold-hearted either. He was more fixated on the concept of safety, considering the loss he had recently been drowning in, but he had everything under control now—men in Birmingham and Camden Town updating him on the status within the bakery, information that Tommy claimed was “crucial for business.” He was aware of who Alfie had pissed off and from which direction a potential threat may come, at times having his own men diffuse the situation. 

So to hear that Alfie had cancer, that he was being killed by something Tommy himself could not eliminate with some razors and a gun, that Tommy was no longer able to keep him safe—

He started penning new agreements with Alfie. In his state of panic upon hearing the news, Tommy turned to what he knew best and was most comfortable with—business. The agreements all had termination dates now too, inky years written into the corner of the page that extended far beyond what Alfie’s expected lifespan was. Yet instead of arguing with Tommy or trying to haul him out of the mindset he was in, Alfie signed and indulged in Tommy’s naive fantasy: that if their lives were bound to one another by some paper contract, Tommy could buy them more time.


	12. hope

Alfie had once asked if Tommy hoped anymore. It was a question posed “out of the blue” you could say, though the circumstances themselves were quite random. Tommy had adopted a tendency to show up unannounced at Alfie’s doorstep, with no particular purpose in mind. The reality was that the time they spent together was brimming with either business or fucking and nothing in between—yet there remained a certain itch at the back of Tommy’s throat which was only satisfied by appearing unannounced and sitting in Alfie’s office, while the other man tended to his duties.

He didn’t just _sit_ there, of course, because he’d walk around, examining the knick-knacks on the shelves, the papers framed on the walls. There was one instance where he tried reading the Torah on Alfie’s desk backwards, and once Alfie was amused enough and remarked that “yeah, well, you’re not gonna learn anything reading it in that direction, mate,” Tommy had simply mumbled _right_ and left for home immediately.

It was extremely bizarre behavior for Thomas Shelby—to spend time doing virtually nothing—but he refused to define exactly what kept drawing him to Camden Town on these occasions and simply acted on the impulse.

Therefore the office was silent, apart from Tommy’s shuffling or Alfie’s grunts and mutterings, and now this question: “Do you hope anymore?”

Tommy did not react or answer immediately, still glued in place on the other side of the room. His eyes remained fixed on the painting hung on the wall, avoiding Alfie’s gaze, when he finally did respond.

“Sometimes, in the morning, when the curtains are drawn and I’ve just opened my eyes, vision still fuzzy from sleep—when I’m simply focused on determining whether this is a dream or consciousness, no other memories or realities intervening—I can remember what hoping felt like.” 

And he subsequently, unintentionally, realized that it was those mornings that he’d decide to make a trip to Camden Town.


	13. dreams

They both had a whole collection of dreams before the war—plans for families, houses, jobs. It was typical behavior for two individuals with an open, blank space spread out before them—an opportunity to paint whatever they wanted. ****

One of the traits that carried over for Tommy was his habit of planning. He had a specific flat picked out in Birmingham—he believed he’d stay in the city his whole life, live humbly—and composed a list of the current available job openings where he’d earn enough to afford it. There would be four or five kids, nothing less. Tommy valued the company of his own siblings, but above all he wanted to prove that raising these children happy and safe was possible—that having a stable father figure for them to rely on was possible. Perhaps to prove that this world wasn’t inherently wicked, he had just been a bit unlucky.

He was going to marry Greta. It was something he was absolutely convinced of, but now, looking back, his own blindness and naivety made him shudder in embarrassment. 

Alfie was less pragmatic, but a dreamer nonetheless. Most importantly, he wanted to travel—visit the places his family originated from and then everywhere they hadn’t set foot yet. There would be kids, yes, lots of kids because if one thing remained constant it was that Alfie Solomons was particularly fond of himself. And every child would have a dog. It was terribly sad, he always said, to wander through life without a dog, so to shield his children from that pain—and cure his own, considering his mother had never allowed him to get one—he’d buy enough dogs for every person.

And then the war came and young men who had mapped out a trail for themselves were forced to reconstruct their dreams to fit the extra life they were given. It seemed inappropriate to use this time living meekly and not capitalizing on the extravagance that this world was tempting them with, so they chose the path of crime and violence and money almost willingly.

But they would be lying if they said that the dreams they used to have had dissolved in their memory, because many of them still existed, wedged deep within the folds of their brains. Glimmers of pre-war visions would appear at times and a certain form of peace that they both knew and wanted to harbor until death—now too far to ever be achievable—cried out for them.


	14. crying

Alfie had found Tommy on the floor of his office. The idiot had clearly drank too much and fell backwards in his chair, limbs sprawled in all directions like a starfish. It was a right state he was in, truly, his chapped lips parted slightly, the deep inhales and exhales clearly audible, and the rest of whatever he’d been drinking splattered across the front of his shirt—stains mixing in with the ones that Tommy’s sweat had created. This is why he didn’t drink, Alfie noted, to avoid looking like this: pitiful. 

“Tommy, darling, now we both know, right, that this is no way to conduct business, now is it?” It had originally been a business meeting, in fact, scheduled at a noticeably late hour, but Alfie hadn’t questioned it—his eagerness to hear what ridiculously elaborate scheme Tommy had conjured up now had particularly intensified recently. But he did not receive the standard _Good evening, Mr. Solomons_ because Tommy Shelby was—

Crying. Thomas Shelby was crying and Alfie initially grimaced at the realization. He always liked to give witty and sarcastic remarks—experimenting with what it took to have Thomas Shelby crack a smile, or at least show some sign of amusement. Yet in these circumstances it seemed unfair. He was absolutely horrible at sentimentality, his tongue—usually bubbling with words—suddenly running dry. But his fear of the situation subsided upon seeing the teardrops clinging to Tommy’s long lashes, the dribble from his nose pooling in the widow’s peak and his chest rising softly with each new cry. It wasn’t just a drunk anymore, it was a sad drunk—a completely different beast. Alfie nearly softened.

He thought it only polite to move Tommy to some place more civil—perhaps Thomas would burn from the embarrassment in the morning when he regained consciousness, but Alfie hoped God was watching and would reward him for this annual good deed. So he hauled the Birmingham man up by his armpits, dragging him over to flop horizontally onto the couch. The scuff marks left by his shoes would be a pain to clean up, he remarked.

Tommy had opened his eyes finally, watching Alfie sit beside where his arms were rested. And he smelled something horrid, the alcohol souring his breath, but Alfie was too preoccupied by the freezing fingers which were suddenly brushing over his own, slowly slotting their hands together.

With their eyes locked in on one another, Tommy slurred “What are we doing?” The light from the candles flickered and Alfie thought: what _were_ they doing? Right now and on a grander scale of things, because there _had_ been a certain tension brewing between them recently—more frequent meetings called in the night, fingertips brushing whilst contracts were being exchanged, longer glances, scattered smirks, moments that made Alfie’s nerve-endings sing and it seemed that Tommy had noticed the same type of—

He was letting his thoughts wander far beyond the boundaries of sanity, provoked by a vague question posed by a man too drunk to hold his head upright. So he pulled his own hand away and responded with _surviving_ , before locking the door on his way out.


	15. travel

There was a single trip that they took. Alfie said one day that fucking Tommy in the same 4 wallpapered walls was getting to be a drag—he needed a change of scenery, something more adventurous. ****

He wanted sand. So they took a trip to Margate.

-

Sand, as it were, got everywhere. Absolutely in every crack and crevice, rubbing skin raw. They should have brought a blanket. Both of them had thought of bringing a blanket, but neither wanted to suffer the consequences of revealing that they cared too much, so the sand continued to violate their privacy and their bodies toasted as if on a griddle. 

Nobody knew that they were there, of course, concealed in the reeds somewhere far off along the beach. Nobody but the seagulls that insisted on circling around them, even after Thomas had announced _multiple_ times that there was no fucking food around. He pulled out his gun at one point, prepared to get his message across once and for all, but he was stopped by Alfie sticking his finger in the barrel. It was unfair, he reasoned, to punish ‘God’s simple soldiers.’

-

There was a moment where Alfie laughed—a single, deep chuckle that reverberated in Tommy’s bones. They had been lying side by side at that point, eyelids quivering against the sunlight, and the foreignness of the sound had startled Tommy into checking whether Alfie was choking. But he’d laughed. Of exasperation or excitement was unclear, yet Tommy archived the memory for less sunny days. 

-

It was a failed experiment in the end, but watching the sun dip below the horizon was actually, quite nice.

“Right, what if,” Alfie had never been too comfortable in prolonged silences, his anxiety inducing him to speak after only 2 minutes into watching quietly, “you just boarded a boat, yeah, and just fucking…..just sailed out onto that water. Forgot about the fucking business of it all, yeah?”

And Tommy, with a mouthful of smoke and his eyes fixated on a tiny point bobbing up and down in the distance, claimed that the water made Alfie much too sentimental.


	16. kiss

They kissed for the first time on Tommy’s birthday, while Alfie was holding a gun pressed into Tommy’s temple and Tommy’s eyes watched the show of expressions on Alfie’s face in amusement. Thomas was drunk. He had arrived drunk and had babbled on drunkenly for a while before insulting Alfie—something about him and unintelligence, a surprisingly precise snub.

And Tommy once again had to find a way to dig himself out in the presence of Alfie Solomons. His argumentative processes were a bit hazy, dots connecting to one another illogically, but after a few minutes of labored churning his head came up with a single solution: _kiss him_. 

It had worked with women—a few quick touches or pecks and he was able to regain control of the situation. It seemed reasonable now too—how different could it be?

And he’d been observing for a while now, making note of Alfie’s movements, his full body scans of Tommy, the way he licked his lips whenever Thomas began speaking, or how his fingers thrummed nervously when their meetings began fading towards a conclusion. And in all of the mental scenarios where Tommy had practiced this very moment, Alfie had always reacted amicably. Within this foggy headspace, that justification was reason enough to try it. 

So he placed one on him. Quite literally _placed_ because it wasn’t a kiss, really, moreso lips pressed into one another while both pairs of eyes remained wide open. 

Alfie’s irises were very pretty, Tommy recalled noticing. His lips were very dry. Those were the only two faint details he could record on account of being more or less sloshed and Alfie pulling the trigger.

Alfie pulling the trigger—of an empty gun because he was sober and not a complete imbecile. He un-suctioned his lips from the awkward position, rubbing at his cheeks with a palm in hopes of masking the blush that was threatening to peak out. Tommy was frozen in place, his own lips still puckered and the skin around his left eye twitching where the imaginary bullet had torn through.

“Happy birthday,” Alfie’s gruff voice shattered the air before he hobbled off.

There were a thousand preoccupations that should’ve manifested themselves as a result of this encounter—was business dead? Would Tommy be dead? Why was Thomas _not_ dead? But the whisky and adrenaline only allowed him to focus on one: _He remembered_.


	17. conditional

Tommy’s love was conditional. Not maliciously, it simply meant that Tommy had discovered he quite liked being candidly complimented—his eyes, his lips, the few faint freckles that danced individually on his cheekbones. Pretty little comments that made his fingertips tingle and throat tighten, and that he quickly grew addicted to. ****

Thomas was not touch deprived, he was simply hungry for specific validation. _You’re beautiful_ had become too vague and it was Alfie alone who indulged Tommy in commending him for physical attributes that he at no point had any control over choosing. 

So Tommy would no longer give before he received, mouth angled just inches away from Alfie’s starving one, continually asking: “What else,”… _.is beautiful?_ The end of the sentence would ring invisibly in the air. 

_The shape of your ass, the curve of your lips when you’re smiling, your eyes reflecting the moonlight._ Each encounter brimming with flatteries that Tommy stored away and which bloated his ego.

-

_The hollows under your eyes._

Tommy had been taken aback by the response that time, head jerking immediately to face Alfie. It was not the typical answer he was used to. The circles that sleeplessness had stained him with? That wasn’t right. That wasn’t _beautiful._

And Alfie half expected this initial comment to set Tommy off, compel him to leave. Yet for some unexplained reason Tommy’s expression had softened instead—not defensive, but visibly faltering within the silence.

So Alfie continued. _The strain in your muscles…..The creases on your forehead, between your brows….The callouses that cover your fingers and the dirt beneath your nails….The way your body shakes during a nightmare….The flare in your nostrils when you’re frustrated….The moments when you have to squint away your blurred vision….This,_ The scar on his left cheek, which Alfie ran his thumb along before pressing a kiss to the spot. 

That should have inevitably surpassed a certain limit, and yet—“What else?” a whisper, Tommy’s right hand suddenly sliding into Alfie’s.

And Alfie was prompted to recite his entire list of ugly-Tommy features that he was particularly fond of, adored even—without admitting that detail aloud. They were features which tainted him, indicators that he was fragile, cracks through which Tommy’s emotions leaked through occasionally, without permission. 

Just like then, in that moment, with eyes locked in on one another, a single tear rolling down the side of Tommy’s cheek while Alfie told him he loved him—all facets of him—in the most roundabout, authentically-them way. And that fact alone would remain entirely unconditional.


	18. chocolate

The horrendous idea of giving Alfie a gift for his birthday came to him one morning, right as he woke up. It had been a while since these “sexual transactions” had begun and Tommy could now even admit to himself that he enjoyed them, so perhaps expressing that in some way was advisable, even if completely outside the zone of comfort that Tommy adored concealing himself within. ****

It was lucky actually, that this idea blessed him months before the actual birth date, because it took Tommy months to decide on what he wanted the present to be. Something simple, yet effective. Something caring, yet indifferent. Something which indicated that Tommy was somewhat, in a way, _grateful_ for this all, without explicitly saying so.

He decided on chocolate. Chocolate was perishable, untraceable—no evidence could be leftover once this relationship inevitably went to shit. No proof that Thomas Shelby had once made a gesture—and it was this notion of temporality which encouraged Tommy to make the purchase. He himself didn’t go didn’t go to the store, of course, that was too risky. One of his men was ordered to find the best imported Swiss chocolate in England and deliver it to his doorstep in the dead of night. These were all necessary precautions. 

How he would deliver it to Alfie was an entirely different situation.

-

There were multiple ways that he considered doing it before entering Alfie’s office. He could give it to Ollie beforehand. He could leave it under the door. He could walk in by saying “I found this on my way here, perhaps you wanted it.” All entirely plausible solutions, yet he settled on:

“I was told to give this to you,” and handing it over with a single mechanical movement, attempting to remain composed, but still forced to clear his throat. 

Alfie took it equally as robotically, face expressionless, and set it on the edge of his desk. And that was that. Completely normal. Apart from the intense urge to rip his hair out that gripped Tommy as he walked out. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. Unprofessional. Mistake._

_-_

Alfie unwrapped the gift almost immediately after Tommy had left. It was good chocolate, he noted. Tommy must have pulled quite a lot of strings to find it.

And—what would be much to Tommy’s dismay—rather than throwing the wrapper straight into the bin afterwards, he flattened it out neatly instead. Placed it within the pages of his favorite book. To save. Permanence. Proof that Thomas Shelby’s heart was slowly becoming unbroken. 


	19. shake

Alfie fell in love during their first handshake. ****

In reality, the whole ordeal was not as romanticized as Alfie made it sound, because he had a skewed definition of what he considered to be the “first” handshake. It was the first _real_ one, born out of an alliance that they both entered voluntarily, rather than out of the hostile circumstances they found themselves in.

It was sealed in the most professional way they knew: two shots—one water, one whisky—saliva spit onto their palms and Tommy smiling. _Smiling_ , in what had felt like years. Alfie refused to wipe his hand off for the rest of the day.

There was a certain suggestion of validation lacing the entire deal—Thomas Shelby had demonstrated that he was willing to cooperate, wanting to carve out time in his schedule to see Alfie more often in pursuit of a partnership. Alfie had never actively sought after it, but receiving Tommy’s approval—something desired by so many—was intoxicating.

So it wasn’t the physical handshake that made Alfie realize this, none of that “love at first sight…” nonsense. Rather, it was the moment when Alfie realized he could _permit himself_ to love Tommy more freely. A challenge—how long before he regretted indulging in this attachment.


	20. foolish

Thomas Shelby never felt foolish. Every move, every word, was carefully calculated before execution, to ensure he appeared daunting and convincing. He’d polished his public appearance perfectly - oftentimes these characteristics bleeding into his private life - and his ego had now convinced him into believing his methods would prevent him from being embarrassed ever again.

And then there was this moment: standing on the doorstep of Alfie Solomon’s house, in the dead of the night, entire body trembling from being drenched by the rain.

He had not calculated this move. His unconscious had at some point decided between 12 and 1 AM that he would perform the mechanics of rising from bed, dressing and paying Alfie a visit. It was on overdrive, it seemed, considering Tommy’s brain had felt foggy earlier, thoughts muffled over the sound of _Alfie, Alfie, Alfie_ replaying insistently inside his head.

So here he was, Alfie blinking repeatedly at the foolish figure standing hunched over in front of him. He offered no words, yet Tommy could not act surprised considering if he was met with a similar scene in a different situation, he’d have preferred to remain silent as well.

None of it made any sense. He was going to get sick if he continued to stand here purposelessly, but his body was planted firmly in place - two cement blocks replacing his feet and for the second time that day his mouth opened without Tommy consciously willing it to and -

_I need you,_


	21. broken

Let it be known that Tommy Shelby was a firm believer in the pinky promise. Or at least he was when drunk enough to start hiccupping. ****

He’d revealed this attachment to the gesture when they were in a similar situation a few months prior. Tommy grew extremely chatty when under the influence of one too many whiskeys, so it was only under these special circumstances that Alfie assumed the role of listener and nodder. Thomas would carry himself away on a wave of various tangents—of business dealings, war memories and family secrets, some details of which Alfie did not want nor need to know.

It was fascinating, really, to watch Tommy become so animatedly engrossed in telling a story, though Alfie usually only understood half of the slurred words and hiccupped interjections. But Tommy had notably stopped abruptly on that one occasion, as if shocked frozen by the thought in his head. He collapsed next to Alfie on the couch, extending his right pinky out in front of them.

“Promise me,”

“Promise you what?”

“Jus…fucking promise me,” and there was such a strong sense of urgency in his glazed eyes, in the tiny, panicked whine that followed the end of his sentence that Alfie immediately linked their pinkies firmly together—vowing to tread as carefully as possible and avoid breaking whatever promise they had just so seriously agreed upon. 

And yet he broke it, anyway. Tommy made that painfully clear now, once again hiccupping in the silence that filled the space between them as he gripped Alfie’s pinky in between his own thumb and forefinger. _You broke it_ , he’d said, shoulders slumping against the cushions in defeat, all of the animation that had just seconds ago been buzzing through his body language completely gone. It hurt—to see Thomas this defeated, to know that it was his own unconscious actions that had ruined this unidentified obligation he had to him. 

And yet how pathetic of himself, Alfie thought, to allow his reaction to some imaginary promise that Tommy most likely did not remember to become this intense guilt welling up in his chest, clogging his throat. It was all foolish; but Tommy, in his now drunken stupor, had more to say.

_I saw you with him._

Oh.


	22. daybreak

Tommy had gone to America to meet with Michael and ensure that all of the progress that he had been reporting from overseas was in fact the reality. He told Alfie the day before he sailed off. It would be easier that way, he reasoned, breaking the news of this month-long absence cleanly and swiftly. It would be the longest they’d be apart…..but no matter. Tommy had no obligations to Alfie—he was doing it out of courtesy anyway. And Alfie responded the way Tommy expected him to: “Right,” ****

-

American English was, in fact, repulsive. It made more sense now why their people tended to prefer the UK accents, why women—with sparkles in their eyes—would smile and comment on how stunning he sounded.

The food was nastier—greasier, stickier—the water was bitter and there was a certain heaviness which hung in the air at all times.

It was lonely. It was foreign. Tommy picked up the phone.

-

It was daybreak in the US, meaning early afternoon back home, so he was unsurprised to hear Alfie pick up after the first ring. He sounded a bit fuzzy on the other end, the receiver picking up all of the background noise. He probably should not have called at the busiest moment of the day, but Alfie’s “Well are you gonna fucking say anything, yeah, or not? Your breathing something awful, mate.” kept Tommy on the line. 

Alfie didn’t know who was on the other side, but Tommy felt too idiotic to introduce himself—to have to explain to Alfie that he was calling because he was fucking _lonely_ —so he simply started with, “The weather here is all the same.” A sigh on the other end—he knew who it was now.

“Yeah, well, mate, I don’t know what you fucking expected - a perfected promise land perhaps?”

“Perhaps,”

And that was enough to prompt Alfie into a monologue for the rest of the exchange. He did not ask for clarification about Tommy’s experience thus far, he didn’t fucking care. And neither did Tommy, because he had not phoned to wallow in joint sentimentality with Alfie, but rather to reassure himself that Alfie was still _there_ —that he was still willing to speak to him, still waiting back home for his return. 

-

He called every morning after that, without fail. There suddenly appeared a bright buzzing in his chest that persisted continuously during the trip. It had been so long since he had excitedly anticipated the sun to rise for a new day. 

Alfie would answer after the first ring, words already spilling out from his mouth so Tommy at times missed the first parts of his sentence. And they were always sentences, never questions. Never any _How are you’s_ , which Tommy appreciated immediately because there were adjectives pertaining to his “how” which he did not and would not share with Alfie. _Sad, cold, torn, horny._ Perhaps the last one was common knowledge to them both, but Alfie would ask for some elaboration just to spite him, to create an awkwardness for his own amusement and Tommy was not lonely enough yet to grant him that pleasure. 

-

With each passing call, it was becoming increasingly difficult to contain the strain in his lungs that he felt when reminded of the tone in Alfie’s voice, but remained aware that he was incapable of reaching out and grasping him. Telephones had been one of mankind’s stupider inventions, he concluded one day after a particularly prolonged conversation about absolutely nothing. Sending letters was simpler, less desperate.

He wanted to scream. He couldn’t scream. He was not entirely sure why he wanted to scream.

-

After 3 weeks, the strain had become more or less unbearable. The buzzing still throbbed in his chest, but it kept him tossing in bed throughout the night, pestering him about this new attachment he had unconsciously created. He should’ve left with a different goodbye. He should have made sure the nature of their relationship would remain the same. He shouldn’t have left at all. 

He called earlier this time, before daybreak, because there was no sense in pretending to sleep any longer. He was also the one who began the conversation, interrupting whatever thought Alfie had been formulating out loud.

“Do you miss me?” a statement which he disguised as a question, because Thomas Shelby was a coward.

And Alfie Solomons, fully aware of the fact that Thomas Shelby was a coward, responded with, “I miss you too.”


	23. unforeseen

_Due to unforeseen circumstances, our partnership has been annulled until further notice. T.S._

Those were the contents of Tommy’s telegram which Alfie had been so excitedly anticipating to read. And yet, instead of some request for a company meeting that had _I want to see you_ encoded within the lines, he had elongated _It’s over, fuck you_ to 12 words, in a typically dramatic, Tommy fashion. 

Except this was not the first time that Tommy had called it quits so formally because these things had begun to occur more regularly—at least once a month. Never in person, however, God forbid it happened in person because it was much easier to tell Alfie it wasn’t going to work with a pen and paper as opposed to underneath his daunting stare.

These unforeseen circumstances varied, usually referenced any words or actions that Tommy had let slip out instinctively—entirely normal things for those who allowed themselves to love freely. An uncalculated smile towards something Alfie had said. Brushing an eyelash off of his cheek. Kissing his temple goodnight. His knuckles. Admitting that he had a favorite ring that Alfie wore. That he had once, on one occasion, thought of him outside of their direct encounters. 

And yet, these hiatuses never lasted for too long. Alfie admitted to having panicked when he received the first of these notifications. That one had said _Upon reviewing the terms of our agreement, it seems there have been some violations which need to be immediately and thoroughly addressed_. Anyone else would have wondered for days about what violations Tommy was referencing, but Alfie instantly remembered that Tommy had ‘accidentally’ muttered _I quite like doing this_ in reaction to them reading the paper together in bed. 

So Alfie no longer worried—simply rested his feet atop his desk and continued conducting business. Because in a day, or two, or three, Thomas Shelby would arrive at his door and when asked about the message, would claim—each time—that Lizzie must have made a mistake with the address, because he _most certainly_ did not mean to send that to him.


	24. heartache

_Do you have to go?_

A symbolic question. Posed each time to Tommy, who was in the midst of walking out through the door after a night spent together. It received the same response each time, but by now had become a sort of tradition—the rehearsed repetition of Alfie saying something without truly saying anything at all.

The mornings were the worst time of day.

Light on the horizon simply indicated that Thomas would be on the move again, leaving Alfie behind in Margate—lips sealed so as to not reveal he had spent his entire night with someone now considered a God, whose image stood in the Holy Land, chiseled from stone. Perhaps Thomas was unworthy.

Neither slept during those nights—both bodies pressed completely flat against the mattress, eyes focused on the cracks in the ceiling. Completely still to make sure, ironically, that the other wouldn’t be startled awake. 

Alfie’s heart ached hours before they parted, in anticipation of Tommy’s shuffled movements beside him. Tommy’s ached knowing that he would once again disappoint them both by letting his _Yes_ rattle against the four walls.

If he stayed they could—

They could do what? Sing songs? Compose love poems? Alfie would list off the most ridiculous ideas to keep the ones he truly wished for from flooding in. 

-

He had arrived at the break of dawn this time, with genuinely urgent news. But once that had been delivered, he’d been invited to dine with Alfie. Afterwards to complete other various activities that he did not need to be accompanied for. 

And so the day reached dusk. One of them mentioned, nonchalantly, that it was too dark to return to Birmingham. _Too dangerous_ , or some other nonsensical excuse that Tommy agreed with. Tried desperately to hide his excitement when agreeing to spend the night.

Dawn again.

_Do you really have to go?_

_No._ Surprisingly, some honesty. Yet he left anyway.

Too scared to discover what would happen if he stayed.


	25. wings

In a bout of what Thomas called “considerable misjudgment,” he had gotten a new tattoo. 

Technically it was Arthur’s fault, because he had been the one nagging him to ‘take a stroll in the snow’ together. _Come Tommy, just a sniff_ , and Tommy - who had in recent times been actively seeking for ways to make his life more complicated - caved.

 _Just a sniff_ and suddenly there were fireworks sparkling before his eyes, the stench of the cigarettes burning his nose and everyone was fucking _screaming_ \- or maybe those were just his hyperactive thoughts.

And then suddenly - silence. A single idea had risen up from the jumble in his head, manifesting itself like a light at the end of a dark tunnel. Tommy was on the move. _Come on Arthur_ , he needed a tattoo.

-

It wasn’t difficult to find someone with a needle and some ink who was willing to stain the Thomas Shelby’s skin. It was harder to explain why he had chosen that particular design. Yet luckily, thanks to the fear that he had established amongst the general population and the remnants of dust from the cocaine on his upper lip, nobody questioned it. He explained. They executed.

The final product was - interesting. Beautiful, according to a Tommy who was riding the most intense high of his life. Absolutely fucking spectacular, according to Arthur who was a world-renowned yes-man no matter the state of coherency he found himself in.

Though Thomas had not yet completed his journey for the night - still had one more place to visit. Alone.

-

There were only a few circumstances in which Alfie would agree to rise from his bed in a disgruntled state - as opposed to very disgruntled: Cyril or Thomas Shelby. 

“You’re in quite the fucking state, mate, yeah?” Was substituted in for a _hello_. Understandable enough, considering Tommy was bouncing lightly on his feet, arms jittering, the drug still surging through his veins. 

“I’ve done something. It’s wonderful. Do you want to see it?” He didn’t wait for a response before gripping his shirt and ripping it open, the buttons popping to the ground. 

The tattoo was still terrifyingly fresh, Tommy’s skin bright red and slightly raised, but - arguably so - the contents of the art on his chest were more horrifying.

They were two giant angel’s wings, extremely detailed, outlined, with a large space in between. And the word filling that void? ALFIE - written in a quite amateur attempt at medieval script.

“Do you like it?” Tommy’s eyes were wide. Alfie inhaled deeply.

“It looks like you’ve inked a fucking _in memoriam_ of me on yourself.” Tommy took that as a yes.


	26. questions

They were a binary in terms of expressions of anger—for the most part. It was Alfie who lashed out, screamed, shattering whatever objects were in his wake, creating a multipart scene where those around him shivered, pressed against the walls in an attempt to become invisible. Apart from Thomas, who understood that the tantrum would soon be over and Alfie’d be wiping the spittle from his lips, eyes softening into an expression that bordered on apologetic.

While Tommy contained his rage, offering only a stony expression. His tone took on that of a father berating his child, telling them he _wasn’t angry, he was simply disappointed_ —the condescending nature cutting deeper than any glass which Alfie broke. He only erupted if the matter was particularly sensitive. Today was an example of that.

Because they’d been sitting together on Alfie’s terrace in Margate, warming their bodies in the sun and reading the paper, when Alfie posed a question: If it were possible, in some hypothetical, alternate reality, would Tommy marry him?

Thomas stopped reading, but did not raise his eyes. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asked, fingers on his left hand already flexing.

“Exactly like it fucking sounded, mate.”

Tommy laughed once, sharply, and rose to his feet, tossing the rest of his cigarette aside. “See,” he started, moving towards the railing, back turned to Alfie. “You insist on asking these questions, conjuring up these impossible scenarios and for what, Alfie, for fucking what?”

He was referencing last week, he had to have been, considering Alfie had asked him if they’d _hypothetically move in together_. Yet Alfie had no time to finish recalling the memory, because Tommy had turned on his heel, blue eyes piercing Alfie’s chest, not waiting for an answer. His hands were fisted now, cheeks burning bright red.

Because—with a voice that had now reached a frantic yell, he continued—wasn’t it enough that he was here right now, that he _had been_ coming here and the house before this one over and over and over again? Fucking _sneaking around_ in the shadows, behind walls and doors, risking his business, career, reputation just so they could _get off_ once or twice a week in some forbidden, twisted way—lying to everyone around them, pulse heightened at all times— _fucking_ dirty, desperate, confused—and Alfie _still_ pressed him with these stupid questions, drilling the knife just a little deeper into the wound—because it hurt, it fucking _hurt_ to live knowing that he would have to keep another eternal secret hidden away rather than live freely—so wasn’t this enough? Why wasn’t this fucking _enough_?

He slammed his fist into the railing. A glass tumbled off, smashing to the ground before his feet. He wasn’t screaming anymore, the frenzied gestures having stopped, but his chest still heaved.

“Right,” Alfie secured eye contact, “well never fucking mind then, yeah?”

Tommy sighed, collapsing into his chair and snatched back the paper. They brewed in the silence for a bit, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore surrounding them. Tommy interrupted.

“If you’re wondering,” he mumbled, “the answer is still yes.”


	27. insanity

It was a particular brand of insanity that Tommy was plagued with, that’s what he liked to say. A kind that nobody understood and very few could tolerate—his family was forced to endure it.

The symptoms revealed themselves in differing forms and degrees, but the underlying paranoia was consistent. There was a tremor in his left hand that he’d been incapable of shaking, the voices that followed him always laughing at his failure to regain control. His temper had begun to run thin, so his own voice would rise more frequently now, reminding everyone that the weight of their issues always miraculously found itself balancing on _his_ shoulders. As if he was the only person on Earth who had survived that trauma, Ada would snort.

Yet no matter how prissy it seemed that Tommy was, the loneliness that came with this insanity was crippling. Isolating. Constantly pestering him with questions—was that the right decision? Could it have been executed better? What would be the consequences? How did he do it? Why did he do it? Why? Why? _Why?_

It was the insanity which had compelled him to enter this lifestyle—an attempt to increase the volume on the noise in his daily activities, in hopes of drowning out the commotion in his head. More work, more trouble, more reasons to disassociate from his thoughts, if only momentarily.

He hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t wanted to leave home, to be forced into collecting physical and emotional scars under the ground of a country whose language he did not understand. What added to the insanity was that he had no one directly to blame, no one to scream at—so he was shaken up and plopped back in Birmingham. Like a bottle of fizzy drink with the bubbles begging to pop out. But the cap screwed securely on. He had to remain composed.

-

 _You don’t want me_ , he’d told Alfie the first time they kissed. Tommy’s ego was bloated, but the insanity tainted it at times—uncovering certain insecurities. Alfie had shook his head, cupped Tommy’s cheeks and kissed his fingers.

 _I already have you._ It seemed Alfie was plagued with the same disease as well.


	28. didn't they tell you?

Not dying during the first exchange he’d had with Alfie was simply a stroke of luck. Alfie could have easily killed him, Tommy was fully aware that the man was notorious for being quite trigger happy. He had been lucky, that was all—nothing else attached, besides maybe a prayer which Polly had whispered before his departure.

But, actually, no—fuck it, he thought. It was some luck, but also because Thomas was a fucking _good_ businessman.

He could drive a hard bargain and knew exactly which strings to pull on his counterpart. That’s what secured him the success—ensured that he hadn’t returned home to Birmingham with his brains in a gift bag.

So perhaps he gloated a bit. Very rarely, _only_ under the influence of homemade spirits and only to those who he knew would stare at him doe-eyed in awe.

Polly was not one of those people.

Polly somehow found out.

And upon hearing this, knowing well that Tommy was sat in the opposite room, said loudly, “Oh really? Is that what he’s been saying? So they didn’t tell him? Thomas sealed that deal not because of his ‘admirable’ negotiation skills, but because that Alfie Solomons thinks he’s ‘cute’—whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. Otherwise I’d be the one dragging his lifeless body off of that floor.”

Tommy stiffened. Fine then: it had been luck, his talent for business and because he was fucking gorgeous.


	29. confusion

Alfie was ignoring Tommy. 

It had begun with a few missed phone calls. Some unanswered letters. Nothing entirely out of the ordinary, though a bit peculiar because Alfie would usually respond after Tommy’s ninth, consecutive ring.

The refused visits were the main source of Tommy’s concern—he was not accustomed to being denied, especially when it came to indulging in Alfie’s presence, considering the other man shared his same addiction. So to stand there stupidly, in front of Alfie’s office door whilst Ollie observed him pitifully, crossed a certain line.

By now it had become painfully obvious that the lack of interaction between them was intentional. Ollie had been slowly running out of understandable excuses to offer—Alfie should have compiled a list for him, Tommy scoffed inwardly. Because Cyril was a male, after all, so it was difficult to accept that he was giving birth to a new litter right at that moment. Even harder to believe that Alfie had left the office without his reading glasses, which were lying on his desk behind the glass—an overlooked detail Tommy noticed each time.

And yet there was little he could do apart from nod and leave. He wouldn’t make a fool out of himself in front of the boy, refused to beg or question like some frantic child. He would do it on his own time. Privately.

He’d spend just a few moments propped up against the brick wall of the bakery upon leaving. Just in case Alfie stumbled out from around a corner. Just until his cigarette burnt out.

-

The frustration in his chest was growing with each passing day. In truth, initially the emotion was anxiety, but Tommy reminded himself of the glasses on the table and he converted the paranoia into anger. It was easier to handle that way.

It had been nearly a month with not a single dose of contact. Tommy was now starved, engrossed in the task of securing at least a single chance where he’d be able to confront Alfie about his _fucking unacceptable_ conduct. A single chance where he’d be able to see him. Touch him.

The opportunity manifested itself one evening, without Tommy’s influence. Someone had come for a visit, Lizzie announced, and Tommy reluctantly accepted.

 _Alfie._

Tommy recognized the drag in his footsteps almost immediately. “Tommy Shelby, what a pleasure.” a familiar drawling voice.

“What the fuck is the meaning of all this, Alfie?” It was unlike Tommy to confront these sorts of matters head on, but this situation had become particularly complicated. The sight of Alfie after this prolonged period made his muscles stiffen, but he continued. The chance had been secured.

“I’m sorry?”

“A month, Alfie—a _fucking_ month of absolutely nothing. Not even a miserable note that would confirm that you’re alive, but fucking fed up with me. Instead I get nothing. Instead, I’m insulted. I get fed glaring lies. So tell me: am I the only one confused here?”

Thomas Shelby hated not being able to control his surroundings, though recently everything seemed to be slipping out of his grasp. Alfie simply grunted, facial features contorted into a grimace and his knuckles turning white gripping the top of his cane. He’d been cornered—rightly so considering the misery he’d projected onto Tommy for no apparent rea—

“Well I’m fucking dying mate, yeah? So I hope that clears up the fog in your pretty little head.”

And so the last thing Thomas Shelby had been clinging onto stumbled out from between his fingertips.


	30. audience

And so Alfie Solomons was dead. Murdered. Killed in a way that was far less grand than Tommy had envisioned—ironically. No audience watching the events unfold, gasping in shock. No eruption of voices reciting songs of grief. He had died alone on an abandoned beach. Sick. Weak. Ugly. A dog cleaning the blood off of his mangled face. ****

Death truly was lonely.

He had been shot point blank by a man who had received a portion of his trust—nearly unlocked it entirely. The trust was broken now. Mistake made. _Such a shame._

Perhaps it was as dramatic as Tommy had envisioned after all.

And there was no audience now either. Nobody to applaud Tommy for rising from that sand. For surviving that encounter.

But it had been a necessary decision. Bound to happen eventually. He had told Alfie that it would happen—Alfie was _informed_. Thomas Shelby was guilty, but he was not cruel.

_So clever, that Tommy Shelby._

He had refused to take the dog and he had refused to look at the body. Simply rose and hobbled away with eyes shut tightly. Sick. Weak. Nobody cleaning his wounds.

 _Coward_. It seemed the audience was there after all. And the audience was booing him. Late at night, shades drawn. A murmur of boos coming from the corners of his room, from behind the wallpaper. Some whispering in between: _Wrong, it was wrong._ He had done wrong. He was booing himself.

Thomas Shelby was guilty and Thomas Shelby was cruel.

-

He was always terribly cold nowadays.


	31. endless

Tommy always had an endless row of marks sucked along the line of his collarbone. Piercingly red against the pale of his skin. ****

They had persisted for months now, in that same alignment and never quite reaching a shade of purple. Alfie worked to renew them every few days. To re-emphasize that Tommy had found someone who he allowed to spend time on his body, rather than rush to shove it onto the other side of the bed.

But it was still a secret—them. So the marks stopped abruptly on the border with his sternum, where the fabric of a shirt didn’t entirely reach. Always dangerously close to revealing themselves to anyone near him. The risk was electrifying.

Tommy had owned and directed for so long. Therefore, to be owned and directed was liberating. Just a few scattered moments of _no thinking_. Eyes closed, muscles recalling how to relax, toes curled up against the sole of his feet. He was safe. Not abandoned—there was proof, branded into his flesh. _Peace._


	32. underneath

They were standing underneath an umbrella together after Alfie had offered Tommy join him, the rain falling out in front of them. Part of their sleeves still stuck out, excess droplets splashing on—too little room under there for two men. There was a strange sort of intimacy attached to the gesture. Tommy was now incapable of making eye contact with Alfie if he spoke, because turning his head would place their faces inches from one another—and that was entirely inappropriate.

They really should have moved somewhere inside; or at least stood under an awning. Yet it was peaceful this way—being christened by nature’s tears—shoulders pressed together, the heat from Alfie’s body permeating through the fabric. The rain was pouring in sheets now, angry black clouds darkening the sky so that their surroundings were more or less invisible. They were now more or less invisible.

Tommy could count Alfie’s eyelashes if prompted, he was that _close_. Their hands were hidden in jacket pockets—so close that their wrists brushed against one another. Alfie’s skin had begun to flake there too….

Thomas allowed repressed ideas to surface—naively reasoning with himself that the pounding of the rain would muffle any guilt trailing the thoughts. Because in truth, he had always wondered what it would feel like to _touch_ Alfie, to extend beyond the usual handshake. Alfie had facets to himself that were like staring into a mirror—Tommy was simply curious to know if they exceeded physical boundaries. If the rest of Alfie’s body was as rough as his tongue could be. 

_We could fuck_ , Alfie’s voice echoed through Tommy’s bones. The rain intensified even further, he could feel Alfie’s thumb running across his forearm. _But that would make things horribly complicated._

They should have moved out from under there.


	33. afterlife

Thomas had never believed in any afterlife. He had seen enough rotting corpses to grow convinced that no ‘higher power’ would allow a person to enter through the door into their next life in such an undignified state. Not one he wished to be reunited with, at least.

Alfie talked about the afterlife as a place quite often—a mixture of his religious convictions and personal theories, information taken from the experiences of others and fantastical daydreams. There had to be something more, he would always argue, because he refused to believe that all he’d been granted was this wicked, lonely life. 

But that was exactly all they had, Tommy would complete the dialogue internally, just this one fucking _wicked, lonely life_.

Though once they had been reunited after the _incident_ , the word began bouncing around in Tommy’s head more frequently. They had a blank slate now—stained with some blood, but empty nonetheless. 

A new form of afterlife: a chance after the first one they had fucked up. Maybe there was nothing, but maybe this was something—a place where Tommy could hold Alfie’s hand without his heart in his throat.


	34. rules

There were a certain set of rules that Tommy abided by when it came to intimacy in his relationships—whether they be romantic or purely sexual. ****

Minimal unnecessary touching. It was an act, after all. Everything done in this forsaken life was some form of transaction, a step taken to get from one point to another, fill one gap and move onto the next.

This included kissing. Kissing posed a threat: lips parted for too long had the tendency of oversharing. There was the potential for a lie—formed by the moment—to slip out. Thomas did not need more complications.

So there was no talking during sex. It was a personal preference, really. He needed to be focused, to perform up to his own standards, rather than be distracted by what the other person was saying to him. Some words tumbling out from the other would be tolerated, but his own remained sewn shut.

And these were the rules, fucking non-negotiable _rules_ that had to be fucking followed, but when he was with Alfie, Tommy simply flicked at them—like toothpicks standing in a row, one by one each knocked over.

-

With Alfie the touching multiplied, Tommy’s whole body unraveling in Alfie’s hands. Extra maneuvers, different positions, frantic movements attempting to get as much skin pressed into Alfie’s as possible.

He starved for Alfie’s mouth, for a chance to seal them together entirely. Unspoken words flowing down their throats, released from touching tongues.

_Please….Please….Please…..Don’t let it stop…..I love…._

Still incapable of entirely finishing the sentence, but nevertheless another rule broken. Tommy had now become embarrassed at the notion that he was shattering these invisible boundaries. Alfie was entirely unaware of them, yet the guilt still made him feel desperately obliged to prove to him that Tommy had meant it—it wasn’t just some hollow remark, borne out of a moment of ecstasy.

He betrayed himself, but the feeling was euphoric—stronger than his will. Maybe there _was_ a God.


	35. wishing

The moment came not too long after Tommy learned of Alfie’s illness. They were quiet more often now, simmering in bed with their hands intertwined and eyes fixed on the mirror fastened to the wall across the room. Portrait of Two Men Unfavorable to Reality, was what Alfie would title the scene staring back at him. ****

He felt no pain of his own then, simply focused on absorbing Tommy’s, eyebrows knit together in concentration. There’d been no better way to tell him. There was no better way to console him now.

 _What would they do_ Tommy had asked after the initial news. _Keep surviving_ , that is to say, proceed as usual. And it was fucking unfair, Thomas thought, that every scrap of positivity was eventually snatched from him. He was not a pessimist about it all, he was a realist. _Portrait of Two Men Unfavorable to Reality._

Tommy had shut his eyes, eyelids quivering from how tightly he was holding them closed. Alfie observed him through the mirror—the reflection of Tommy’s face landed directly atop the single crack in the glass, cheek split in half, lips jagged. 

He was unsure of what Thomas was doing within that broken head of his, but the question seemed nevertheless appropriate to ask. What else was there to do now but pray to a hollow sky?

_What are you wishing for?_

Tommy’s answer was quite simple. _I die before you._


	36. return

Their fighting had always centered around some form of business: botched contracts, professional betrayals. Very rarely were they targeted at personal attributes or habits, because they had entered this _relationship_ fully aware that the other half was tormented by a variety of vices—and they found solace in the idea that there existed someone else who understood that wordlessly.

Yet this time had been unusual, beginning with the fact that they had reunited at Tommy’s house. It had been a long time since the last, would be an even longer time after this on account of Alfie being ‘busier’ than usual. 

The declaration came as a surprise and Tommy—in a spell of panic and frustration at not receiving clear explanations—sparked the conflict. Because Thomas, with a dead wife and a dead brother and a family entirely dependent on his performance, seemed to more frequently expend energy on maintaining this _thing_ , something Alfie couldn’t be fucking _bothered_ to mirror.

 _Understand that_ , Alfie had begun to provide the elaboration which Tommy was so aggressively demanding. Understand that he was planning, that he was preparing and himself panicking and wanting to organize quickly so as to maximize their time together. He was sick. He had not told him before, but he was trying now—endlessly petrified by a potential last meeting ending in this way. 

Yet all of the things that he wanted to say jumbled with all he needed to say and the muddy thoughts compelled him to spit a _Fuck you_ at Tommy’s feet instead, before leaving. Both had always been weak in the battle against their own stubbornness and impatience.

Frustration was subsequently replaced with pain. Thomas had grown immune to _fuck_ , yet delivered from that pair of lips was debilitating—continued to be during the longer period apart.

Alfie did not return. 

-

Cyril was not the only thing that Alfie had left for Tommy after the incident. It became clear that many of Tommy’s items had slowly been accumulating at Alfie’s home only after workers began to return them—quietly, never daring to question their location. They were jackets, a watch, pairs of shoes—belongings that Tommy had either truly forgotten or had left there purposefully, as some form of tether, a sense of security that he would always have a reason to come back.

A piece of paper had gotten mixed up with it all once, folded neatly and slotted between some stacked clothes. It was clear why it was returned to him, considering the scrap was titled _Thomas Shelby_. Though the messy scrawl was not his, rather Alfie’s—a note. A reminder.

_And in this death, yearning will consume me. I loved once. I will never love again._

Tommy wondered if they had known—whether they simply gifted him it out of pity.

-

Alfie returned every night after that delivery—sat in a chair, wearing exactly the same clothes from that last fight.

Tommy reached out frantically each time, breathless, tears threatening to spill out onto his cheeks—but they were always a few centimeters too far from one another, the edge of Alfie only grazing fingertips. 

_We should have quit it, Alfie, we should have fucking quit it all_. Every night a new sentence—the verbal manifestation of both their guilt. And though Alfie never responded, Tommy’s stomach still churned in anticipation. 

They had been living in their own snow globe of misfortune. This was the only solace he had left now—a figure in the shadows and a slip of paper hidden under his pillows. And it was unclear whether Alfie had appeared to apologize or to explain—to reaffirm that whatever they had shared extended to this new phase of existence—but Tommy decided to voice his own purpose instead. His words pierced the silence, reverberating against the walls.

_And in this life, yearning will consume me._

Alfie did not return after that.


	37. study

Alfie had studied Tommy from their first interaction, trying to determine what attributes he had that made Alfie so notably attracted to him. Of course his eyes and lips—all of the conventional features that made him beautiful whilst simultaneously terrifying. But there was more. A _something_ that made the hair on Alfie’s arms prickle up, his trousers tighten, lips moisten at a mere thought. It was _different_ —he blushed at his own naivety in that statement. ****

The glasses had improved his overall image, but Alfie had crossed that off the list. This particular intensity in his urges persisted far before the glasses appeared.

It was likely the challenge of it all. The notion that Alfie had finally crossed paths with someone who was not easily attainable, who was not starry-eyed for him or the money he was willing to give. Someone he had to _wait_ for. And there were few tasks more excruciating than waiting for Alfie Solomons, but he would bear it if it meant replaying this feeling endlessly.

Alfie continued to study intently, nevertheless—out of pure curiosity—gradually learning that they shared more similarities than he’d previously noticed. He himself was unpredictable, that was firmly established—always distracted by the movements around him, triggered by the tiniest of slip-ups. _A creature constantly adapting_ , was how he had described himself once. But their bluffs mirrored one another—an index finger scratching at his temple—the nervous tics they had, the words they struggled with. The fact that both always assumed any counterpart would be less intelligent, incapable of fully understanding their _vision_. Tommy, it seemed, was simply a more composed version of him: the way Alfie would act if he had patience. 

And perhaps it was this reflection of himself that made Tommy so agonizingly attractive, after all.


	38. stars

They were a different variation of star-crossed lovers—the outside forces thwarting their relationship coming from inside instead. ****

It was comical almost, to watch as their confidence in expressing affection waxed and waned sporadically. The outbursts were usually unexpected. It was as if their brains were simply overloaded with all the things they _desired_ to say, causing occasional hiccups. Mistakes that left a verbal mess they had to quickly clean up, somehow.

So _I love you_ was corrected to _I loathe you_. The classic _Nevermind_ trailed every _What?_ And _Hold me_ changed to _Cold. Me_. Tommy had genuinely bought that one—it was difficult to decipher what was abnormal versus casual Alfie speak. 

But it was all quite a fucking drag, really—more-so for Tommy—so he wished on those fucking stars, that twinkled mockingly in the sky—begging for a scrap of courage to finally say something without immediately backtracking. For a snippet of self-control. 

And this is what they gifted him: _I need you…..As in—K-n-e-e-d….in the side, during that one encounter._ Throat cleared. _I—was simply clearing up the entire situation, so as to avoid future complications._ Tongue-tied.


	39. punctual

Tommy’s method of flirting with Alfie was with punctuality. He was not entirely sure how this process worked—a flaw he was unwilling to admit to—because women had flocked to him, not the other way around. There was minimal work needed to be done. But he had always respected punctuality in a person, assumed Alfie—as a businessman—would share the same appreciation. ****

So he would arrive on the dot—a few minutes earlier, actually, so that he could wait outside the door for the precise minute to appear. He implemented firm eye-contact, frequent head nods, language that pointed towards a willingness to negotiate. He had even tried to be a bit more direct once. _Does that sound reasonable?_ Alfie had asked. _Yes, I would love to do it with you, Mr. Solomons._ The answer was delivered with a straight face, though there’d been a failed attempt to place emphasis on the ‘do it.’ Alfie had just furrowed his brow in confusion and said _Right, yeah…_

Tommy’s skin seared under his collar. Never again.

-

Weeks passed. Tommy had now begun leaving each encounter with visibly slumped shoulders because Alfie did not show any indications of being more interested than the last time, ever. 

In truth, Thomas did not even know what he was waiting for. More smiles? A wink? Other cliche and unrealistic reactions to expect from Alfie? He was waiting for absolutely nothing.

However, Tommy hated failure—even if both the plan and ultimate goal were known only to himself. So he repeated the same routine, swallowed the same disappointment and immediately began to recharge for the next one. No matter how worthless it all was, if only to salvage a scrap of dignity.

But Tommy, it turned out, was grossly underestimating the progress he was making throughout every meeting. He just never could see under the desk.


	40. gone

Tommy was getting married. Alfie had gotten the invitation over the phone. _We’re done now. It’s over_. A _Regards, Thomas Shelby_ would have been fucking polite, Alfie thought, because the phone clicked before it could be said. ****

But it had been coming—the arrival of this announcement was inevitable, considering Tommy had always mentioned this Grace woman after they’d finished fucking. A reflex. A way for him to re-establish his own security. There was someone else: he was with someone else and that someone else was more important than these meaningless fucks. _Remember that._ Saying it aloud always made it true, after all. 

And Alfie, it turned out, had simply been foolish to believe that Tommy drunkenly admitting he only slept peacefully the nights after seeing Alfie— _What do you think that could mean?_ —meant anything at all.

-

 _I’m going to marry her someday_. Thomas had said it a long time ago. He’d added extra flavor on that occasion—describing both her body and the sex they had in as vulgar a way as possible. 

The change in tone was the result of a slip up. Tommy had asked Alfie to kiss him mid-fuck—something new. And though his chest burned red after Alfie instinctively obliged, he still waited until after to emphasize his usual point. 

_Then why fucking haven’t you?_ Alfie spat it out. And Tommy, to his surprise, did not have a good answer. _It’s not someday yet._ No, someday came nearly a year after. 

-

So Thomas was gone now. Alfie was not stupid enough to believe that he’d return, because Tommy had finally accomplished his original goal. Found an irreversible reason to stay away: fucking pretty Grace in their pretty family home, living in a pretty little fantasy. Pretending for a few days that he would be able to exit this business as easily as he’d entered it. 

And Alfie was loud. Alfie was violent and brash and often out of control. But he was not impolite.

He sent the happy couple a wedding gift. A bottle of sleeping pills and some ‘brown bread,’ delivered with a note: _Lucky you. A.S._


	41. quarantine

They were in lock-down now—complete quarantine—for an unspecified period of time. Unless there was some non-negotiable reason for needing to leave—one approved by the police. ****

The message crackled out from Alfie’s radio. _Right…_ He was eyeing Tommy, trying to gauge his reaction to the idea that he was now stuck in Alfie’s house ‘for an unspecified period of time’.

Tommy simply shrugged. _I can do whatever the fuck I want_ , he was talking to the walls, a billow of smoke floating out from between his lips. There were policemen on his payroll, he would say fuck all and leave whenever he pleased.

He did not move.

-

Though, as it turned out, quarantining was more difficult than either had initially anticipated. There was nothing left to do anymore. They had already fucked 5 times. Read each newspaper cover to cover. Smoked.

Tommy had been pacing back and forth across the room for 20 minutes—a bird flailing around within a brick cage—whilst Alfie observed, head growing dizzy. _Right..well, I just wanted to express that…you are—you’re inc—_ But Tommy immediately paused and spun to face him.

_Don’t even fucking try it._

_Right…yeah._ They were not that desperate yet. 

Tommy continued. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. _I could leave if I fucking wanted to._

_I know._

Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Back— _I need to piss._

-

Whatever it was, it was not a piss judging by how long Tommy was locked in there. But Alfie did not dare knock or ask, simply reread one of the papers once again, this time counting the number of A’s in an article.

He was on number 443 when Tommy finally emerged—shirt buttoned crookedly, one shoe untied, his last cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, bald.

Fucking _bald_.

And he’d done an absolutely horrid job, tufts of hair still sticking up in patches. He collapsed into the chair beside Alfie, left hand trembling. 

_Get yourself a sharper fucking razor, Solomons._

_Right…yeah._

It had been 4 hours.


	42. koala

Tommy visits Alfie quite often during his recovery. The letter asking about Cyril was simply a key to getting through his door, a form of permission slip for Tommy to come see him. Maybe it was just the drugs causing Alfie Solomons to be so forgiving, but Tommy decides to take his chances, regardless. ****

Alfie phases in and out of lucidness while Tommy is there. He’s able to walk, but slowly. And there’s one noticeable difference—disregarding physical appearance: he has a tendency to grasp on to moments from his childhood now, wants to relive them. It’s a mechanism to cushion the pain—immerse himself into memories of blissful oblivion.

Today he wants to visit the zoo. To be reunited with his “prehistoric kin, lost brothers who are now fucking trapped in cages, yeah…shackled to four walls just like I am now, fucking restrained and—” The morphine has not entirely worn off yet.

But they go anyway, that’s the way this dynamic works now: Alfie says, Tommy does. It was the least he could do, on account of—you know. 

-

“The fish are very colorful.” Tommy is not sure if it’s because his head is still a bit fuzzy or if Alfie finds it this difficult to squeeze out praise in general, but he simply nods his agreement. “Yes, quite colorful.”

They spend considerable time staring at the vultures. Tommy had noticed one of their skulls decorating Alfie’s shelves at home—wonders if that was a gift or a prize Alfie won for himself. He’s leaning towards the latter, but slots the question away to ask a more stable Alfie. Whatever that meant. 

The lions, tigers and pumas are skipped over. Alfie is not keen on big cats, to Tommy’s surprise. He had assumed the more lethal, the more fascinating. But, then again, he had opted for a giant dog as a pet—perhaps those preferences extended beyond the domestic sphere? Another question added to the list.

Alfie tears up at the gorilla exhibit. Tommy pretends to not notice.

The koalas are their last stop. They’re furry little beasts: sleeping all day. Eating when they’re not sleeping. A little heavier, a little hairier. “They remind me of you, a bit.” Tommy remarks.

He turns to his left because Alfie has suddenly gone silent, but Alfie is just _gone_ —hobbling away, grumbling about something to do with the fucking _ungrateful, rude pricks_ he always finds himself surrounded by. Tommy scans the area around the enclosure. No one else. He supposes the rage was his doing then. 

It was supposed to be a compliment.


	43. anchor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is can be considered a sequel to "gone"

His decision to pursue a life with Grace was a simple one. This is, at least, what he claims. 

Grace is “the plan”: the _right thing_. Alfie is simply “the back-up”—a bad habit. Everyone has one. Everyone succumbs to it occasionally. That is how he justifies it.

The mirror is a very good listener.

-

Weddings are always so outrageously mundane. Frivolous. Loud. He has forgotten the reasons which made him love all of the others.

“It’s the happiest fookin’ day of your life, Tommy-boy. Why do you look so miserable?” Arthur is the only one able to make his ‘Fucking _smile_ for once you gloomy _dick_ ’ sound kind. Everyone else simply says it verbatim.

And he _is_ very happy on the happiest day of his life—it just turns out that that is not very happy at all.

-

Grace dying was not the plan. The plan is dead.

But he has severed ties with the back up—memories of that conversation still wedged into his side like a thorn. Plans were his anchor, a way for him to keep from drifting too far from shore, remain steady when the waves of panic could no longer be drowned out with the whiskey.

He is stranded now. He is in the middle of the ocean and there is a screen of fog enveloping him. Isolated.

He needs to sleep.

-

The tide has deposited him back on Alfie’s doorstep. _Of course he comes back._ Thomas Shelby can be unpredictable, but his weaknesses remain consistent.

He appears with swollen eyes, palms upturned. _Surrender._

And Alfie—slightly taken aback by his miscalculation—extends his arms, aligning his hands atop Tommy’s and gently tugs him into an embrace. _Acceptance._

There is a new anchor now.


	44. grey

The sky is grey, the rain is drizzling and Tommy Shelby is on his way to meet Alfie, who has betrayed him once again. Which is to say, a completely average day.

Tommy wonders when the pain from this betrayal will become average as well.

-

Though it’s different this time—Alfie is pacing in front of him, spewing profanities. He has not lashed out like this in a long while. Tommy has not wanted to kill Alfie like this in a long while. The gun trembles in his hand.

Micheal is chirping in his ear: “Don’t do it Tommy, don’t do it. Bad for business” _Business._ Everything is centered on the _fucking_ business now. There are days when Tommy pities himself.

He is watching Alfie’s lips move, inches away from his own. Spit is sprinkling onto his chin and he can feel the drops of blood slowly streaking down his forehead— _poor bastard_. A warmth blooms in his chest, reproducing itself right above the pelvis. They are so incredibly close, he can nearly taste Alfie’s— 

If only Michael was not here.

-

“—a fucking civilian that does not understand the wicked way of our world, mate.” That should be the breaking point—Alfie has challenged Tommy’s intelligence. He has pressed the big, red button without permission and Tommy should be seething now—should have his thumbs dug into Alfie’s throat, should be putting a bullet in his brain. His blood should be painting Tommy’s face— _finishing touch_. Alfie knows this.

_Alfie Solomons wants to be dead._

The realization finally occurs, settles heavily in the pit of his stomach. This is not an average day.

 _So pull the trigger, Thomas Shelby._ It is what he wants, after all.

-

“Well said, Alfie. Well said.” Sometimes, death is a kindness. The act of killing itself is, according to Arthur. 

Thomas is unkind. They will continue to suffer together.


	45. young

Tommy leaves Charlie with Alfie, but only _for a moment_ , he reassures. There was a call waiting for him. _Urgent_ they’d said, so he rushes out. “He’s got toys, he’s occupied. It’s only for a moment.” ****

He says it the second time to reassure himself.

-

It would be polite to approach the child, Alfie supposes, though he seems perfectly content over there, cruising his figurines around the block city, babbling and _vroom-vrooming_ under his breath. Alfie wouldn’t want to—

Charlie looks up. “Hi.”

“Hello there.”

“Do you wanna play?” There’s some chocolate in the corner of his mouth, a bit of snot dribbling from under his nose. Alfie resists the urge to toss a handkerchief at him like he did his father the first time they met.

“Yeah, yeah—alright.” And he settles down in a chair near him. 

Alfie’s sure he had some of the same wooden statuettes when he was younger— _so long ago_. He’s aging himself, but it’s nice to see some things have remained constant. “So, what else does your generation like to do?” 

Charlie looks up at him, doe-eyed. “What does gen-ayshon mean?” Alfie had not anticipated this question. 

-

Charlie pulls out two tiny soldiers from a car, passes one over to Alfie with his chubby fingers. “Mines name is Sir Bubbles. Name yours.” 

“Right, of course.” It has been a while since Alfie has used his imagination for non-violent ideas. Some hesitation, and then “Mine will be ‘Alfie’.” 

He’s nervous, alright?

-

They’re fighting for the Golden Ice Cream Cone—the most prestigious of awards, acquired through the toughest of duels. There’s swords, there’s horses, there’s a magic cap with a blue feather on top—Charlie’s favorite color, Alfie learns—there’s evil flying fish, no dames in distress and a hole in Sir Bubbles’ shoe. “That’s why he wants the Golden Ice Cream Cone. It will make him feel less sadder about the hole.” Ah right, of course.

Alfie allows Charlie to win every battle. He assumes that’s the right thing to do and this game would be over much quicker if Sir Bubbles encountered the full force of Alfie’s flick. 

Before the last stage begins, Charlie’s left brow raises as he turns to say, “You’re not very good at this, you know.” It’s fucking Tommy Shelby’s kid, alright.

“Yeah? Well you should have seen me in the real war.” _Jesus._

-

The moment has passed. Tommy returns apprehensively, relieved to see that Charlie has remained in the same spot, surprised Alfie is now sitting on the floor beside him.

They’re holding their right fists out in front of them, licking the air around it. “Can I ask what you’re doing?” 

There’s a glimmer of fear in Alfie’s eyes, maybe some embarrassment thrown into the mix, so Charlie explains very matter-of-factly.

“Sir Bubbles won the Golden Ice Cream Cone, but he felt bad for mini Alfie so they decided to share.” He shrugs, Alfie mimics the action. 

“Yeah, it’s quite self-explanatory mate.”


	46. sea

Alfie brought a puppy home. 

He’d been out on a stroll by the sea and found the little guy chasing gulls, the sand stuck to his nose causing tiny sneezes to escape him every few seconds. 

“So you stole someone’s lost dog is what you did.” He didn’t fucking _steal_ anything—Tommy was always so stubborn when it came to animals in the house. Cyril had been the exception. 

“We’re keeping him.” The declaration was followed by a long, heavy sigh.

“Alfie Solomons, in what fucking world do have time to—“ he was interrupted by Alfie holding the puppy to his face, a tiny tongue licking the tip of his nose. Tommy maintained his stony expression, unimpressed.

“If someone hurls through that door with a gun looking for their _stolen_ dog, I’m not fucking saving you. I’m not.” 

-

Alfie knew it would take a while for Tommy to accept this—it had taken him months to get used to Cyril and he had mourned him almost as intensely as Alfie.

Though after a week had passed, he agreed to at least acknowledge him. Kick a ball nonchalantly in some direction without waiting for the puppy to come back. Pour him food once. Watch as Alfie taught him various commands.

The same continued into week two and three, apart from one monumental detail: Tommy pat his head after he’d successfully sat down when asked. “Good dog.”

It was progress.

-

On the fourth week, Alfie arrived home earlier than usual, greeted by the sound of talking in the kitchen. They weren’t expecting any guests. His hand moved instinctively to the gun on his belt. 

He walked quietly towards the kitchen, listening closely to what was being said, already planning on how to successfully divert this attack. “I think we’re going to have to name you, you know. It’d be only polite.” _Name you?_ What kind of fucking business was this? He peeked around the corner slowly.

They were sitting at the kitchen counter together, each on their own respective barstools, a carrot placed atop a plate lying in front of the puppy. There was a moment of silence, and then “Can you even understand me?” the little guy wagged his tail happily. “I’m going to assume that’s a yes……Now are you going to eat your dinner or no?” 

-

After that incident, Alfie felt confident enough to test certain limits. “Can he sleep with us today?” because the pup had been pawing at the bed for days now, round eyes begging to be cuddled.

Tommy raised his left brow, eyes darting from Alfie to the dog suspiciously. “Fine.” But he tugged the rest of the covers around him and rolled over to face the wall.

Fucking ‘ _fine_ ’. This had never really been a negotiation anyway. As if Tommy’s naps didn’t include a puppy sleeping above his head when Alfie ‘wasn’t around.’

-

The puppy pissed on Tommy’s rug. Alfie braced himself for the hurricane approaching from Tommy’s direction, but he was hit with a light gust of wind instead. “Fucking Seabird, not again.”

“Seabird?” Tommy froze—something had accidentally slipped out.

His face flushed bright red. “He told me it—I mean……I thought it fit considering you found him around some, after all,” rushing away quickly for some towels.

“Seabird.” Alfie tried the name out, the puppy sat beside the stain he’d made, drooling happily.

-

Two months in—it had become tradition for Seabird to come running to say hello whenever Alfie returned home. He did not do that this time.

Tommy probably took him for a walk in the back, Alfie reasoned whilst taking his shoes off. Visiting the horses perhaps.

He was wrong on both accounts, because Tommy was suddenly rushing down the stairs towards him, Seabird in his arms, terribly excited.

“Look,” he had put one of Charlie’s caps on the dog’s head, had a matching one on his own. It fit quite well, actually. “He’s a Peaky Bulldog.”


	47. morning

They run away in the morning, thick fog still hanging in the air. Their bags are packed heavy with supplies, but Tommy feels exceptionally light today, like his bones have been hollowed out. They’re headed in no particular direction, perhaps towards the cluster of trees which mark the start of the forest. _Away_ —that is the only goal. 

Tommy had whispered the idea a few nights before, head hidden in the space between Alfie’s rib cage and arm. “Just get away—be free.” It was so easy to dream without consequence. And Alfie’s immediate answer is yes, because that is the only logical answer when Tommy Shelby asks you to disappear with him. 

The shadows of fresh kisses tingle along Tommy’s jawbone as they trod through tall grass, fingers laced together. _They’re doing it, they’re doing it._ They can do it. Tommy knows they can. His mother used to speak of doing this exact thing, he remembers, even began packing towards the end of her life. Wool socks. A knife. Dried meat stolen from the pantry. The sole difference is that he does not intend on getting lost alone. 

They pause to rest momentarily, concealing themselves in a meadow of poppies whose blood-red heads dance with the wind. “I love you.” Alfie is proud of that emotion—repeats it as often as he can and the birds chirp their approval. It seems that there is hope in this gray world, precisely here—beyond the borders of what people have created. Where noses nuzzle into hair and the smell of mint drifts out from the leaves dissolving on Tommy’s tongue. 

Guided by each morning’s sunlight, they’ll make it.


	48. belong

Tommy does not belong in the same position—on the same level—as Alfie. This is, at least, what Solomons believes. “He’s only little,” his first comment attests to that, not at all a reference to Tommy’s height. 

_Big fucks small_ , that is the policy, and yet small has managed to wander in through his door, searching for a way to carve out a space for himself. 

Alfie must correct this imbalance, and so he flaunts his grandeur: strewing words together into cryptic sentences, thick fingers decorated with shiny rings. It is all a sign, a threat, even— _we are not the same_. Tommy feels traces of former insecurities poke at him in this stuffy room. 

He chooses the wrong bread, heat rising up along his spine. Alfie grunts in affirmation of his own assumptions and Tommy is suddenly acutely aware of the Birmingham ashes dusting his clothes. _You can try, yeah, but you can never wash that shit out of you_ —he recreates the intonation of Alfie’s voice in his head.

Intellectually, they are in a deadlock, though that factor alone is not enough for this world. Alfie Solomons reigns above him. 

-

Tommy towers above Alfie, knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his waist. There is a ring of bruises encircling Alfie’s neck, a shade of sickly purple. It is a sign, a threat, even— _small fucks big._

This is the position Tommy belongs in.


	49. treasure

The types of items they considered to be treasure only intersected when it came to actual treasures—gold watches, Faberge, emeralds glistening in glass cases. The similarities ended there. 

Because Alfie preferred receiving objects from someone else—items whose intentions were up to interpretation. It explained the rows of _things_ lining every shelf, creating a clutter of memories and messages that spoke only to him. Jars of white sand, the skull of an eagle, bouquets of dried roses slowly crumbling to dust, soldier figurines. 

Even a very flat, very plain pebble had earned itself a spot. It had been a present from Charlie.

On the other hand, Tommy’s token of choice was the written word. He saved every message he received: a thick stack of birthday cards piled up in his bedside drawer, surprise notes that had been slotted in between the pages of a book, slips of tiny messages scribbled into the page corners of his agenda.

Love letters. Alfie only practiced his calligraphy when it came to composing one of those. 

He chose them, because there was no room for misinterpretation. It was explicit evidence that someone had thought of him, appreciates him. That he is needed.


	50. west

It had not been Tommy’s intention to get Alfie drunk. ****

He called London with a question regarding how much water he was meant to use in this rum. Business was progressing quite steadily, which meant Tommy’s ambitions were growing and he decided to expand the variety of alcohol he distributed. Alfie had been generous enough to share his own successful recipe with him—there were benefits to engaging in business after regular work hours after all.

However Alfie insisted over the phone that he would travel out there in person, to ensure that Tommy wouldn’t “fucking embarrass” him by creating a flop of a drink. It meant Tommy would not sleep alone tonight. 

-

With Alfie at his disposal, Tommy took the opportunity to ask for his opinion on more than one of the products in his distillery. But finger dips turned into tiny sips, transforming into gulps and by the time they had reached the whisky, Tommy noticed a sway in Alfie’s shoulders. He restrained himself from laughing—it hadn’t been a lot of alcohol, but he supposed for someone unaccustomed, his body was bathing in it. 

“Alfie?”

“Yeah?” it was a drawl, eyes lagging a few seconds behind the response. 

“I think we ought to sit down, Alfie.” He was tipping over to the right side now. Tommy steadied him with a firm hand, slowly guiding him to an armchair. 

Alfie collapsed into it with a loud huff. “Tommy?” the innocence in the delivery of his name was startling—made it clear that Alfie’s mind was somewhere drifting on rum-scented clouds.

“Alfie?”

“You wouldn’t fucking make it out West there, in that America….no.” his pointer finger wagged sluggishly in front of Tommy’s nose. “I am deeply sorry, but you just wouldn’t.” So a drunk Alfie was an apologetic one. 

One corner of Tommy’s mouth curled up into a grin as he watched Alfie fumble with the glasses round his neck. “Yeah? And why is that?”

“Oh, Tommy, sweetie, they’re savages out there, just plain savages.” he dropped the glasses in exasperation. “With all of them cowboy hats and cowboy boots, sand fucking blinding you, fucking vultures swooping in to take a peck at your pretty blue eyes. No….No you simply would not survive.”

Tommy cocked his head in amusement. “Are you warning me or asking me to stay?” He had never mentioned America, though the thought had crossed. There was potential in the West and with Michael surveying the situation, the transition could be smooth.

Alfie’s brows had pinched together in contemplation of the question—Tommy could see the gears in his head grinding, slowly but surely. 

“I think—I think it is both.” It was sincere, Tommy recognized that. And he tried to formulate his own response—find some way to tell Alfie that he was the only aspect of England holding him back now, without telling him that at all—but Alfie had more to say.

“What have you done to me, Tommy, mate?”

 _Now or overall?_ Was how he could have challenged that, but Alfie had dozed off—chin pressed into his chest, the rumbles of a snore escaping from between his lips.

Tommy had not anticipated this type of sleepover.


	51. elder

There were splotches of blood along Tommy’s hairline when he arrived at Margate, places that his quick wash had missed. His shoulders drooped in exhaustion as he climbed the stairs with heavy steps. Picking at the dirt under his fingernails, he folded himself into Alfie’s lap on the armchair. A rare occurrence—a sign of a particularly long day. 

He was bony, his bottom digging into Alfie’s thigh, but Alfie clenched his teeth and focused on the forehead pressed into the scruff of his beard instead. Slid a hand under Tommy’s shirt, thumb caressing the length of his spine.

“What are we going to do when we’re elderly?” The sun was disappearing behind the water, Tommy’s question barely audible against the loud buzz of cicadas. Alfie inhaled. 

Tommy was asking about the future—Tommy never asked about the future. For one, in a business where you teetered on the brink of death often, aging was an abstract concept, not romanticized. Growing old meant growing vulnerable. But the ‘we’ was what made Alfie lean into Tommy’s touch, wrap his arms around him tighter. 

_We_. Alfie had played with the idea of forever here and there, but he never mentioned it and neither did Tommy. Doubted Tommy ever considered it because everything he engaged in seemed to be temporary—to minimize the blow of inevitable loss. 

Alfie indulged in the question. 

“The first thing you’ll do is finally read all the books in that dusty stack on your desk, poor bastards. Won’t be able to use time as your excuse any longer. I’ll make tea—lots of it—in that shiny new kettle you’ll buy me. There will be dogs, I can assure you that, which we’ll have to take on long walks on this beach right here.” He continued on with his vivid descriptions, knowing well that Tommy had not meant ‘do’ literally, but it did not seem right to dwell on reality now. 

They’d collect seashells and create origin stories for each one. Experimenting with cooking was a must—Alfie still had a cupboard filled with his mother’s spices and yellowing recipes that he’d neglected since her death. There’d be music. All day—a soft hum in the background. They could sleep until the sun had risen far above the clouds, the chatter of gulls pulling them out of bed. “You’ll have to do something about the snoring.” Tommy interjected only once. 

Yes, Alfie would do something about the snoring. And at night, after they had finished counting the stars, they would bundle up in homemade blankets on the couch in their living room—Alfie would take up knitting, he decided. He had always been interested in knitting. 

Tommy’s eyelids had drooped closed, the heat from an imagined fire thawing his toes. “No obligations, Tommy Shelby. Just you and me.” Lips grazed over his temple softly. 

Solitude and the smell of burning oak. That was worth surviving for.


	52. defend

_Tommy is in hand-to-hand combat with someone he had crossed. Guessing his identity, he says, is pointless. The list of possible names runs for miles. ****_

_His knuckles are mangled at this point, left pinky surely mangled. He can feel his breath hitching, limbs slowly growing limp, each punch delivered in slow-motion—it has nearly been an hour._

_The alley is dark and deserted, the perfect place to be beaten to a pulp—the eyeglasses rattling in his pocket are proof of that. He should have found a different location. He should have planned this better._

Their eyes are locked across the table, Tommy licking his lips occasionally as he recites this hypothetical. A question, that’s what he’d to Alfie. One last, drawn out inquiry for the day. Asking it has now bordered on ten minutes.

_Sporadic bursts of stars cloud his vision. A tooth loosens in the back of his mouth. He will lose this—the realization settles heavily onto his shoulders. He will lose this to a bastard whose name he cannot remember._

_But then Alfie appears from around the corner, visible to Tommy only, quietly observing. There’s a gun tucked behind his jacket, a row of lethal rings lining his fingers. Tommy’s fate lies in his hands now. He can end this. He can defend Tommy with a swift bullet to the aggressor’s brain or help him battle the rest out bare-handed, walk away satisfied with what his fists can still accomplish._

_Or he can leave it be. Wait for the final, lethal blow and watch the despair flood Tommy’s eyes as he lays lifeless on the concrete._

“So,” one last lick of his lips, “what would it be?”

Alfie’s got one brow raised, nose scrunched slightly in either disgust or amusement—Tommy cannot tell the difference yet. Perhaps he should clarify the question, he thinks once Alfie does not answer for another minute, but Alfie raises a finger to stop him.

“Tommy,” he reaches across the table, places his hand over Tommy’s momentarily, then lifts it to graze his cheek. “Yes, I will fuck you.”


	53. basorexia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basorexia - the overwhelming desire to kiss

When Alfie is released from the hospital, Tommy—as volunteer caregiver—is given a folder of instructions. It’s full of information on what time Alfie needs his medication, what dates his check-up visits are, a list of things he cannot do for the following two months. _No sticky foods. No prolonged exposure to bright light. No heavy exercise._ “That includes sex.” There’s a gleam in the doctor’s eye when he delivers that line, quite sure that he understands the nature of this arrangement, but Tommy casts it away with a glare. ****

 _Two months._ He pinches himself for lusting over a man he had intended to kill. 

-

A routine is created within the first week. It is a necessary step for them both, they decide—a way to stay sane in the confines of this house for the next two months. The to-do list is pinned to the kitchen wall. 

They begin with washing out the refrigerator. It’s surprisingly clean for belonging to a man who had just spent months in the hospital, Tommy notes. Nothing but some slices of moldy cheese, freezer-burnt chicken breasts and a few stray peas rolling around on the back shelf. It takes them three days. Tommy keeps his shoulder pressed against Alfie’s as they stand in front of the door. 

-

Laundry is much more complicated. There’s already a large pile on the floor, made up of only the clothes Alfie had at the hospital. They ought to give the sheets and clothing at home a wash too, to get rid of the blanket of dust on them. Alfie insists it’s unnecessary, Tommy throws them in anyway. It is the least he can do. 

He does most of the work really, keeping himself busy by stacking books back into place, scrubbing windows, dusting the floor, as Alfie sits and pretends to read, adjusting to his new vision. But they both participate in preparing meals, slicing onions and peppers and strawberries, red juicing staining the pads of Tommy’s fingers. The mechanical motions are therapeutic for them both.

-

They are preparing to go to sleep one night, about a month in. The shadows in the room have concealed Alfie on the other side of the bed, only a single strand of light from a streetlamp outside illuminating the left side of his face. The scar is deep, jagged, the skin around the glass eye growing back in small lumps. It is hideous, and Tommy is gripped by an intense urge to kiss it. Coat the mangled cheek with soft pecks as a form of apology. 

“I was going to miss.” The lie slips out. He winces as Alfie crosses over to the other side, placing a palm to his bare chest—right atop the tattoo of the sunrise. His eyes scan slowly from Tommy’s chin to the top of his forehead before kissing him once, softly. 

“I know,” a lie just the same, but then again Alfie had planted his own bullet in Tommy’s shoulder blade so they are equally guilty. “One more month, Thomas Shelby.” And that concludes this conversation, apologies accepted through a few more touches. One more month and then another lifetime ahead.


	54. zero

The probability of someone in the family finding out about him and Alfie is zero. Tommy is meticulous with his calculations of how much time they’ll need, the intersections in their schedules, where and how Alfie is allowed to touch him. 

It is restrictive and inconvenient when he has to loosen Alfie’s grip on his waist or adjust the placement of his lips in the _middle of it all_. It makes sex choppy.

“But no less enjoyable.” He repeats the line to Alfie every time he finds traces of complaints in his eyes. And Alfie abides because Alfie is addicted.

They slip up only once. 

-

“I think a bug’s bitten you, Tommy.” Finn points it out in the kitchen, gesturing towards the patch of red on the back of Tommy’s neck, peeking out from behind his collar.

Tommy stiffens, hand immediately slapping over the spot, squashing the imaginary bug between his fingers. He is frantically recalling the sequence of events from the night before, trying to determine the precise moment of his slip-up, before sensing someone else appear behind him.

“Now let me see that.” Arthur. Relentlessly curious. 

He pries Tommy’s hand away, examining the splotch. “Fuck Tommy, it must’ve been a giant, that bug.” He cannot see Arthur’s face, but John is smirking across the table. That is proof enough. 

They are envious and proud, if anything, that Tommy can seduce a woman wherever he goes. Too oblivious to note its peculiar location. 

Ada is next in line—she is not a part of this family unless content for blackmail against her brothers presents itself. Tommy hears the grimace in her voice. “Jesus, Thomas, have some self-control.” _Self-control_ , right. He will make sure to bring that up the next time his mouth is smothered against a pillow. 

“What kind of bug do you think it was, Tommy?” Finn’s voice reaches him in a soft hush, worried the creature will find him next if he speaks too loudly. 

“It’s native only to London, Finn. Nothing to worry about.” Tommy rediscovers his humor in only the most inconvenient of situations. 

-

Polly corners him on the stairs. “Is it for business?” There is no use in asking Polly how she _knows_ , because Polly simply knows. All she needed was evidence to finally confront him about his crime.

“Yes.” His lie is transparent, but he uses it as more of an indicator, rather than a genuine attempt to conceal any feelings. 

_This one means something._ Polly interprets it wordlessly, offers only a small nod of her head. 

-

He lays in his bed that night wide awake, studying the cracks in his ceiling. Though his insomnia is the product of relief, rather than fear. 

The probability of someone finding out about him and Alfie remains zero. Polly will not tell. 

-

Alfie is permitted to love him freely the next time they meet.


	55. b'shirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> b’shirt // באשַערט (yiddish, n.) - “destiny”; referring to the seeking of a person who will complement you and whom you will complement perfectly
> 
> modernish au

It’s not much of a search for his destiny, because Tommy Shelby moves into the home next to his on a Tuesday.

It had been previously occupied by an older couple—one that Alfie often tended to and shared evening teas with—but they had died and the house had been abandoned, eventually taken over by the bank. Alfie was left with a void in his schedule and a tear in his heart.

He had intended to introduce himself to the new neighbor more formally, perhaps bake a fresh loaf of bread to offer as a housewarming gift—Alfie was famous for his bread in circles of friends—but they ran into one another on the lawn one afternoon before he had the chance.

“Hi neighbor!” they were looking at one another, but it seemed like he’d still managed to startle him. The man walked over slowly. 

“I’m Alfie Solomons.” he extended out his arm, the handshake was weak. 

“Tommy Shelby.” Tommy Shelby was quite lanky—only a bit of muscle hiding under his collared shirt. There were dark hollows under his eyes and a scar on his left cheek, but the cheekbones were incredibly defined. His eyes enchantingly blue. He was very pretty, in a very sad way. 

“Well, welcome to the neighborhood, I’m sure you’ll grow to love it.” He received a soft _ thank you  _ and  _ goodbye _ .

-

Tommy had not been wearing a ring on his finger, Alfie had noticed. There was only one car parked in the driveway and a single, potted plant sitting on his windowsill, the leaves wilted. Tommy lived alone. Alfie found a new neighbor to care for. 

He was apprehensive to accept the gifts at first—handfuls of peaches from the tree in Alfie’s backyard, steaming baskets of thick-crusted rolls—but he always did. Even began opening the door in advance, when he saw through his window that Alfie was coming over. 

It was slowly becoming a friendship, Alfie liked to think. The conversations were short and often vague, but they lasted incrementally longer. Tommy had started complimenting certain details of the food Alfie brought the few days before. Alfie even tugged half a smile out of Tommy with a joke about horse racing once—it was an interest, he learned, they both shared.

And really, if Alfie was being honest, baking and picking and cooking was much easier once he knew he could look at Tommy again.

-

It happened the Saturday morning that they were both outside. Tommy had left his home to pick up the mail, Alfie was on the sidewalk with a dish in his hand. This time it was blackberry cobbler—not his own blackberries, but he supposed Tommy would forgive him. 

“You know, I feel foolish not being able to reciprocate with any of my own recipes, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I tell you I’d burn my house down if I tried.” It was a full smile this time, the scent of sugary fruit lightening Tommy’s expression. 

Perhaps that was what made Alfie so giddy, but his head grew momentarily fuzzy and he grasped onto Tommy’s arm, squeezing gently. “You don’t have to be guilty, and it keeps me occupied anyway.”

Tommy took a step back abruptly, stiffening. “I don’t like being touched much.” His eyes were apologetic. 

“Right, mate, yeah, of course.” Alfie sunk his hands deep into his pockets sheepishly. He’d overstepped an inappropriate boundary, clouds of red shrouding his forehead and cheeks. “Right, well..I hope the cobbler isn’t burnt.” and he hurried back home before Tommy could respond. 

-

Alfie did not bring anything over the following week, the thin stack of recipes that he had planned out on his kitchen counter laying untouched. Out of his own excitement and stupid, little crush, he had offended Tommy. Certain self-restraints had to be put in place.

It wasn’t a  _ torturous _ week per say, but it was lonely. Because Alfie had friends, yes, but they all lived on the other side of the country now. They’d moved into the city to pursue grand projects and prestigious jobs and they never visited, noses scrunched up at the thought of coming back to the  _ suburbs _ or the  _ countryside _ . And Alfie had been one of them once, even had a fancy job lined up with a firm in London, but he refused it. The old couple had absolutely no one left around here either—the thought of leaving them stranded was more haunting than having his friends move a few hours away. 

So he roamed around his garden, tended to the flowers and picked up fallen fruit from the grass. Scrubbed his windows and his shower walls, brewed pots of tea fit for 2 people and poured the extra down the drain. 

-

There was a soft knock at his door the following Saturday night. Alfie considered taking a butter knife with him, because he never expected guests, but the area was safe.  _ Family-friendly _ is how they described it. He left the knife out on the counter just in case.

But it wasn’t a burglar on the other side, just Tommy Shelby with a bowl in his hands and an embarrassed smile on his lips. “It’s potato salad. I bought lettuce in the market before reading the recipe online, so I can make a real salad if you prefer. It’s not a lot, but it didn’t require me turning the stove on.”

“You didn’t boil the potatoes?”

“You’re supposed to boil them?” Horror flooded Tommy’s eyes.

And Alfie simply laughed, overwhelmed. “Do you want to come in? I’ve got enough tea for two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this neighbors concept came to me one fateful night and i might run with it, make it a one-shot if people particularly enjoy reading it as much as liked writing it - so let me know !!


	56. aeipathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aeipathy (n.) - an enduring and consuming passion

People were jealous of them. Nobody outwardly said it, but Tommy and Alfie could see it in the twitches of their eye, purse of their lips, and frequent glances to their own significant other during joint interactions—sizing up the spark in the relationship. ****

_What do you two do to preoccupy yourselves, nowadays?_

An innocent question repeated persistently by various different mouths, all with the same underlying purpose: to find out how Alfie and Tommy did it.

How, after 30 years together, it could be that Tommy’s skin still flushed a youthful pink whenever Alfie approached, his smile giddy. How Alfie, with arthritic fingers, still found the energy to wipe crumbs off of Tommy’s chin across the table each time. Or to weave fresh blossoms into small tokens to be left on a pillow or chair—sporadic, wordless reminders of _I love you_. 

“He holds a knife to my throat sometimes. It keeps me on edge—reminds me of what he can take.”

The people would laugh at Tommy’s response, nasty shrills with envy raging behind the sound—an anger which stemmed from the fact that Tommy was making a joke of the question, rather than gifting them with the key to unlocking an enduring passion.

And Alfie laughed beside Tommy—fingers running up along his thigh—deep and genuine. Because it was pitiful, really, that others would always be incapable of understanding the eroticism of fucking with a gun pressed into your temple once in a while.


	57. notorious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so this is silly, but i was inspired by those Deep Quote edits that people make for peaky blinders like this: https://www.instagram.com/p/Bt_Pb5UgBGF/?hl=en, completely misquoting the scene lmao so uh! here u go; modern hs au

During his senior year of high school, Tommy Shelby became notorious as the _Edgy Kid_. The alternative, grungy one—hair slicked back, a distressed jean jacket always thrown over his shoulder and a cigarette permanently glued to the corner of his mouth. He listened to bands that prided themselves on being “different” and he said things like _Fuck second chances, people never change_ un-ironically to try and sound philosophical. There was a stick and poke tattoo of a skull and a rose on his right bicep—or at least that’s what he said it was, but he refilled the lines every night with the tip of a ballpoint pen. He considered doing the same on his knuckles, something like LIFE SUCK, but decided he’d like to maintain his notoriety for being literate.

So he was a poser—of sorts. But the first of his kind originating from Small Heath, so he earned the attention and awe from every person except the one that mattered.

Tommy’s mother did not approve of the _Look_. She pestered him nearly every night for looking grimy, like one of those “chain smoking idiots lined up against the wall outside the shops.” High school dropouts. 

And Tommy was on the verge of explaining that the cigarettes were simply props, not an actual addiction—he was not an idiot after all—but remembered that she was unaware of that detail entirely.

“Why are you doing this?”

“It’s nothing.” A typical teenage response warranted a typical mom reaction. “That is not an acceptable answer, young man. What’s her name?”

Tommy smirked. “Alfreda.”

-

Alfreda’s real name was Alfie Solomons and Alfie Solomons had moved to Birmingham from London during the summer. His dad had received a new job post, was the rumor, but Tommy found it hard to believe that new prospects materialized in shitty Small Heath. 

Alfie was what Tommy had now become—smelling of cigarette smoke, knuckles bruised from all the fighting he probably did in dirty alleys, always wandering the halls, grunting something about _rebellions_ and _hopelessness_ under his breath. 

But he did not notice that Tommy had adapted to his style, partially out of coincidence, but mainly because it was not an attempt at a style at all. If Tommy had asked—if he overcame the suffocating nerves that came with even _thinking_ about Alfie—he would have found out sooner. 

Because Alfie’s father was a chainsmoker, the bruises a product of pounding dough with his mother in the kitchen. He recited history lessons before class every day, determined to one day answer a question correctly when prompted, and dark colors simply complimented his eyes.

And Tommy would have known, if Tommy would have asked. But he did not, so he continued scrubbing the ink stains from his fingers, scouring the Internet for new edgy things to say the next day.


	58. antiscians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> antiscians - people who live on opposite sides of the world “whose shadows at noon are cast in opposite directions” // slightly modified this prompt for my own selfish reasons

Tommy and Alfie were two points situated on opposite sides of the same wicked world, orbiting around an identical purpose—the constant accumulation of two vices, wealth and power.

Though somewhere along the way, the pursuit of _more_ transformed into an inconsequential concept and the thrill of fulfilling this purpose dissolved along with their fear of a gun pressed into the space between their brows. Heartbeats continued in their same, steady pattern, skies remained clouded and the only thing keeping their necks upright was some innate ‘will to live.’ Life, dragged on.

Even sin, it turned out, eventually became unappealing. 

However, there were _moments_ —bursts of time where Tommy’s shadow overlapped with Alfie’s own, and two drowsy pulses suddenly grew excited. An eclipse, of sorts, occurred, where the object between them and the rest of the world was a thick, wooden door with a rusted lock, and the fervent hunger to feel one another singed the tips of their fingers.

In the flurry of clumsy motions, hands clasped around shoulders, nails paved scarlet trails across the broad expanse of a back, and the sting of teeth nipping at collarbones caused their eyes to roll back in the socket. The scratch of an unshaven cheek running along the skin pulled over his hip. The sound of his breath echoing against the shell of an ear. Every sense heightened, ablaze, clambering up over the rest in a race to make itself _more_ known, and he could taste it—they could taste each other’s hearts.

When it ended, all that remained was a faint memory of the moment and an overwhelming craving to recreate it, but time forced their shadows back apart.

They would have to survive until the next. Only then, in that brief state—two sullen outlines merged into one—would they again be undeniably _alive_.


	59. cafune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cafuné (portuguese, n.) - the act of tenderly running one’s fingers through someone’s hair

It would be _romantic_ to say that the dynamic between Tommy and Alfie changes drastically after they reconcile post the incident on the beach. That their meetings evolve beyond fucking for the satisfaction of it, into fucking for the whimsical _more than that_. But it is Tommy and Alfie, their needs are insatiable—striving for something more would simply be unreasonable. 

The one notable difference is that Tommy lounges in Alfie’s bed afterwards for longer. Aging has begun to make itself known more frequently—recovery takes longer.

So when Tommy threads his fingers through Alfie’s hair on one occasion—lying in the sheets, staring up at the ceiling— they are both equally startled.

Tommy and Alfie simply do not _do_ that—apart from some haphazard ruffling or tugging during sex. Alfie feels Tommy stiffen beside him, cognizant of the mistake.

“Was there something in my hair?” The possibilities of how to confront this situation are endless. _Is this atonement for the glass eye?_ silently trails behind his sentence, though Alfie chooses to not taunt Tommy for the tenderness—spare him the embarrassment of explaining. Margate has made him _kinder_. His status as God has made him _generous_. 

Tommy sits in silence, considering his own array of possible reactions; finally decides on: “No.” 


	60. asterismos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> asterismos (n.) - “marking with stars”; a word that gives weight or draws attention to the words that follow

He fucks Tatiana on a Wednesday—or perhaps she fucks him. Either way, he remembers because the blood from where he’d gnawed his lip still trickles down into his mouth.

Their backs are pressed into the carpet, fire crackling beside them. “I’ve had better,” she says to the room, “but I won’t say I would not do it again.”

“And why is that?”

“Oh, Tommy Shelby” she rolls onto her stomach and cups his cheek in her palm. “Fucking a widowed man is a very, charitable act.”

-

He fucks Alfie on Thursday. 

Their backs are pressed into the carpet—something new, Tommy had said, and Alfie is too impatient to request an explanation. 

“Do you mourn her?”

Tommy hides behind a cloud of smoke. “That is a bit dramatic, Mr. Solomons. I’ll see her again on Saturday.”

Alfie is laughing, but he is determined. “Don’t fucking twist it, Tommy.”

Tommy replaces the cloud with a fresh one, sees Alfie’s outline shift behind it. “And could you tell if I lied?”

“You fuck worse when you’re sad, mate.”

Tommy’s run out of cigarette, but he looks to him and smiles with half of his mouth, flicks the rest of the ashes onto Alfie’s leg. “Then don’t come to fuck.”

Alfie only snorts.

-

He fucks Lizzie on Friday. Watching her get redressed, he thinks that it would be convenient if he loved her.

“Lizzie.” he says her name so she will listen intently, obediently. He knows she melts with that word on his tongue.

“Tommy.” She is trying to hide the puddle at her feet.

“Do I fuck worse when I’m sad?”

“Well, are you sad?” Silence. He stares in disapproval. 

Tommy Shelby could melt Hell with the ice in his eyes, she thinks. The Devil does not want him, so they were damned to deal with him alone. “It’s all the same to me.”

Her indifference answers another question.

-

Tatiana fucks him on Saturday.

“Fuck the sad out of me.”

She laughs, eyes sparkling in fascination. The sound slices his chest open. “Tommy. You think he will leave you otherwise?”

The ice in his eyes has pooled around his toes, vulnerability burying itself deeper between his ribs. 

Her expression softens suddenly. He just might drown, she thinks. “I can try,” brushing her fingers along the curve of his jaw, “because I don’t think you would survive that loss.”

-

He fucks Alfie on Sunday. On the bed this time, proper.

Alfie takes Tommy’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, twists his head from one side to the other. 

“Welcome back.” The words sew Tommy’s chest back together.


	61. beg

Alfie Solomons was known to drive a hard bargain. Thomas Shelby is now known for driving a harder one. So it is no surprise that the staff in the London bakery buzz in a mix of excitement and fear when Tommy Shelby saunters in one afternoon. 

_Poor Ollie_ , they think, _always forced to face the consequences first-hand._

They hide around the corner of the office, out of sight to anyone but Ollie, craning their necks to watch his reactions. Ollie offers nothing aside from a few shrugs.

The meeting passes without any gunshots. No strangled cries, no mangled men hobbling out from behind the door. Entirely uneventful—a disappointing result, based on their expectations. Though they flock to Alfie anyway—loyal and scared, but nonetheless interested in what kind of verbal noose Alfie had undoubtedly tied round Shelby’s neck.

Alfie inhales, cracks his knuckles—preparation for his performance. “Right, so we’re in my office, yeah? The blue-eyed fuck is practically on his knees, lips parted, palms sweating, my gun, right, kissing his left temple—it was a beautiful scene, right, it really was—and he’s begging for his life, asking me to spare him. To fuckin’ strike a deal.” He surveys his audience, beady eyes focusing in on each face, letting them simmer in the anticipation. 

“And I agree—benevolent as I am—I agree on a bit of a partnership, yeah—just enough to keep him on his toes.” And scene.

They’re nodding in approval obediently, a robotic up-down, and only Ollie stands still with his mouth opened—prepared to provide his own observations as the encore.

He’s thinking—in the most innocent way possible—he must’ve missed something, then. Because he’d been observing through the glass into the room, and all he’d seen was Tommy look at Alfie for a bit and smile all lopsided before Alfie was offering his own services. Granted, it was thick glass and their voices were muffled, and there was a gun for a brief moment there, but he’d heard something about floating off away to Timbuktu, and he’d caught the words _fun_ and _fucking_ and—oh. Perhaps it wasn’t so innocent after all.

The crowd has finished their praising, slowly dispersing, but Ollie stays frozen in place.

“Close your mouth, Ollie sweetie, you’ll catch a fly.” Alfie warns and turns on his heel back into the office.

“Yes, Mr. Solomons.” _Your secret is safe with me._ And something about possessing this knowledge makes Ollie glow a bit brighter.


	62. fisselig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fisselig - being flustered to the point of incompetence; a temporary state of inexactitude and sloppiness that is elicited by another person’s nagging

He did his paperwork in Margate now, on Alfie’s table. The change in scenery relaxed him. _Ruined the fucking aesthetic of the living room_ , is what it did, Alfie would grumble, but he never did explicitly threaten to get rid of him. He preferred to have his messes organized, but he preferred Tommy in close proximity more—Tommy exploited that weakness to satisfy his own. 

Usually when he worked, Alfie would stroll along the beach with Cyril, shooting at the ships using his finger, because he had learned the hard way that you could not use a real gun on these premises. But it was raining that day, so Alfie sat himself in the armchair on the opposite side of the room. 

“Tommy,” Tommy could see him squinting down into the computer in his lap, glasses hovering in front of his eyes, “Tommy, what’s your favorite color?”

Tommy raised one brow, but answered _Black_ before returning to his papers. He rarely bothered asking what Alfie did on that computer, primarily out of fear.

“Is your hair naturally black, or is it a very dark shade of brown?” Tommy sighed, but turned to the mirror above the fireplace to check for himself. _Black_ , he repeated. Or very dark brown? He’d never thought about these things—why did _Alfie_ think about these things?

“How tall are you Tommy? I’d say around 175, judging by the point at which our foreheads meet, but you never can be quite sure, yeah?” 

_175 is fine_. The company was losing money in America. He would have to confront Polly about it—Michael’s performance was falling short of what they had—

“Do the freckles extend onto your cheekbones or are they restricted to the cheeks only? Would you even consider them freckles, really is the question, since they’re faint, right, and usually—”

 _No freckles._ Admitting he had freckles made him feel childish.

It was turning out to be much more money than he had initially anticipated—along with the cash Arthur was blowing through in London. Not good, not good at al—

“Is the shape of your face considered diamond or oval shaped?” _Diamond._

“Red or pink-hued lips?” _None. Pale._

“You like the haircut you have now, or are we looking to change?”

Tommy threw the pen down, dropped his forehead into his open palms. “Alfie Solomons,” the frustration in his voice was rising. He should probably restrain himself from lashing out, seeing as he was the guest in Alfie’s home, but his pestering had persisted for nearly an hour. “Why the _fuck_ do you need all of this information right now?”

“Sims.” He said it matter-of-factly, without tearing his eyes from the screen. 

“ _Sims_? In what _fucking_ world—”

“I’ve only got a 48-hour free trial, Tommy. I’ve got to build this family of ours as quickly as possible, you know.”

And Tommy had more things to say, mainly about how utterly ridiculous this was, but the _our family_ made him soften, just a bit, so he opted for “Make one of the kids blonde.” 

He always thought that would be funny.


	63. beg

Tommy Shelby had been thrown into a war he did not want to participate in, so in this second life he helps himself to any one of his desires. Learning early on that his body serves as a more enticing form of exchange than the threat of a blade under your chin, only helps him accumulate this wealth faster. 

Darby Sabini is his newest customer. Tommy does not discriminate, because he knows they will all be burning in Hell alongside him in the end. Might as well capitalize on the opportunities in the current reality. 

So Tommy fucks them. Sloppily, unenthusiastically, quickly—yet they will still beg him for more. 

-

Alfie fucks Tommy. Tommy could not possibly be doing all of the work, all of the time, after all. 

“How does it feel—fucking a warlord?” It is a pointed question—Alfie is craving praise, waiting on Tommy to indulge him. Confessing his appreciation for being blessed by the _Cock of London_ would be enough. 

He hears the smack of Tommy’s lips parting. “The Italian aspect is a bit distasteful, I’ll admit, but he stays quiet for the most part.”

Alfie’s hand jerks to Tommy’s throat, and he rolls over on top of him, the weight of his body sinking Tommy further down into the mattress. It’s only half aggressive.

He leans his face down into Tommy’s, the tips of their noses brushing, the warmth of their breaths colliding. “Tommy Shelby. Thinks he’s funny, yeah?”

Alfie can feel Tommy squirm underneath him, growing hard again. “You told me big is supposed to fuck small..” he barely chokes the words out, eyes bulging out from their sockets.

Alfie grunts in affirmation, moves his hand from the neck to Tommy’s cock, and strokes it once, teasingly—to reinforce this fact.

He rolls back off, picking his newspaper up off the floor. “You’ll end up pulling a muscle, fucking around like that, Tommy sweetie.” And Tommy only manages to blink his agreement.


	64. battlefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> technically not a modern au, but some facts twisted to fit the narrative

If you were to ask them what they fought over most frequently—which aspect of their routine turned domestic bliss into a viciously bloody battlefield, brimming with screams and broken glass—their answer would be immediate and simultaneous: “Monopoly.” 

Alfie adored the game, Tommy learned to. And it was only natural, really, that the greedy gangster mentality infiltrated their free time and they became consumed by pink slips of money and tiny, plastic houses.

The first few times they played, Alfie decided it would only be polite if he went a bit easier on Tommy—let him grow accustomed to the flow of the game. He would pass up on certain properties and “forget” to collect money on his turns, making the occasional illogical choice. And Tommy would snort here and there, but nothing ever suggested he had caught on to Alfie’s bluff.

One incident involved Alfie’s silver dog landing on Illinois Avenue. There was profit to be made there—one of the most advantageous locations. But Alfie _hmphed_ , scratched his beard, itched his nose, and decided to pass up on it. Which meant he had chosen to continue the game with only one measly red house on the board.

Tommy laughed in exasperation, no longer able to restrain himself. “Really Solomons, you’re something fucking awful at this game—reminds me of your real business decisions at times.” The special treatment ended after that.

-

Alfie was quite ruthless in his strategies, and Tommy had initially been shocked at the sudden change, but the difference between Alfie’s previous generosity and Tommy’s own wit was not—like bread and rum—discussed. 

For the most part, the fighting was silent. Their anger boiled in the pits of their stomachs, the flames slowly licking up their throats. Tommy was usually the casualty—Alfie, unsurprisingly, was not ‘something fucking awful’ in this game, but a seasoned professional. However, the real carnage materialized towards the end, when Alfie started firing blanks at Tommy—the taunting sentences causing Tommy’s jaw to twitch. 

Alfie’s form of aggravation varied. It could be a “Rent please, mate,” with his upturned palm sticking out, a glimmer in his good eye. He would _tsk_ sometimes when Tommy was contemplating his next move, hand hovering over the cards—“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, sweetie,” and his lips would curl up into a smile as Tommy’s cheeks flushed bright red.

Tommy would grow increasingly flustered, breathing through his mouth, each blink accentuated. When he began beating the table with his knuckles, Alfie took his final shot.

Something like: “Tommy Shelby, OBE: One Big EgotisticalLoser, I see.” That was one of his personal favorites.

“That’s not even one _fucking_ word, Alfie.” Tommy had hissed that time, eyes snapping up to Alfie’s.

“And this is an inconsequential game that you’re letting steam erupt from your nose for.” Alfie composed his expression, absorbing Tommy’s vicious glare

The stare-down had lasted for a minute before the flames erupted out from Tommy’s mouth. “This isn’t even _fucking_ fair Alfie, you’ve only got one _fucking_ eye.”

Alfie smiled gently, gestured towards the door. “Feel free to check if it’s still rolling around on the beach out there, then, mate. Perhaps the salt from the air’s preserved it.”

Tommy jabbed his finger accusingly into Alfie’s face, still unblinking, a single tear rolling down his cheek from the strain on his eyes. He retracted the finger wordlessly, and opted for slamming his fist down onto the table, the pieces tumbling off. 

“Fuck you.” he stormed off after that, never had been as gifted with creative retaliations as Alfie.

-

It wasn’t a _sleep on the couch_ type of day, because Tommy had left the bedroom door unlocked. Nevertheless, Alfie thrived on testing boundaries—poking around to see how badly he’d bruised Tommy. 

Tommy was sleeping on his side, so he slipped his arm under the covers and snaked it around Tommy’s waist, skin soothingly toasty. “Forgive me, Tommy Shelby.” he whispered, the hairs on his beard tickling the shell of Tommy’s ear, his knee nudging Tommy’s legs open. 

And Tommy huffed out a sigh, but still arched his back to fit it against the curve of Alfie’s body, and threaded their legs together, allowing the arm to squeeze him in tighter. 

Fine. Truce.


	65. commuovere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> commuovere (italian, v.) - to stir, to touch, to move to tears // charlie’s around 4

After Tommy moved to Arrow House, Alfie visited more often, insisting he be the one to drive over whenever Tommy called. The reason for the change was no mystery—it wasn’t Small Heath, and Alfie was quite fond of the country air coating his ailing lungs.

Though ironically, there was considerably less privacy there than they had in the cramped quarters of Birmingham. The pile of Shelby siblings had dispersed, but they had been replaced with an even taller mound of staff—cooks, maids, nannies. At least the Shelbys’ unease with Alfie’s presence had compelled them to keep a distance whenever he was around, but the staff’s fear of Tommy’s wrath outweighed their apprehension towards Alfie. So they buzzed around incessantly, knocking on door frames, interrupting conversations and focusing their curious eyes on the distance between Tommy and Alfie—keen on discovering whether it shrunk or not.

Alfie did not feel guilty for growing angry with these daylight interruptions. It was the frustration he felt in the evenings which gnawed at him, because Charlie was usually the one to interfere—and not even Alfie could justify being irritated with a child yearning for his, already considerably-distant, father.

They were simple things, really. If Alfie and Tommy had just settled themselves in on the couch, Charlie wanted to read a storybook, wedging himself in between the two men. When the water for their tea had been boiled, the whistle of the kettle drew Charlie into the kitchen, and he would clamber up onto a stool, demanding hot chocolate. If they ventured outside, Charlie would be calling out from the window above them, claiming he needed Tommy to squash a spider on his wall.

There was a smidge of animosity between Alfie and Charlie, Alfie thought—a silly observation, considering it was just a child, but the fact remained that they were both battling for Tommy’s attention, tugging him back and forth. And he worried that as Charlie grew up, this little, unspoken thing would evolve into a hatred for Alfie. That would be that, Alfie knew—Tommy would not choose him over his own son.

-

Today, Charlie wanted a bonfire. The spring was growing warmer, slowly transitioning into summer—the perfect weather for that sort of thing.

It had been another couch scenario, Charlie marching into the room with a bag of marshmallows in his pudgy hand this time. Tommy had smiled sheepishly at Alfie as he picked the boy up into his arms, motioning for him to follow. _Perfect weather_ , Alfie chanted in his head, to settle his emotions.

They only had two chairs to offer, so Alfie took a seat on the opposite side of the firepit as Charlie snuggled up into Tommy’s lap, holding a little stick with a white blob on the end over the flames. He would keep it there for only a few seconds; then swing it over to Tommy who would squeeze and shake his head no. _Not ready._

He made one, then a second, a third for Tommy, and was spearing a fourth before Alfie started seriously doubting Tommy’s parenting strategies. But he kept his mouth shut—no need to add “deprived me of the bliss of childhood sweets” onto the list of reasons the kid could detest him for.

Charlie kept asking Tommy questions, pulling him down by the ear so his own eyes could remain fixed on the marshmallow. Alfie couldn’t hear much of their mumbling over the crackle of the fire, but he caught Tommy’s voice saying “Of course, you can son,” before Charlie hopped off from his father and hurried over to where Alfie was sat.

He stood in front of Alfie’s chair, sticky fingers outstretched to present the crumble of graham cracker and burnt marshmallow in them. “For you.” He said, and waited until Alfie had offered his own palm to shake off the sugary mess. His puffy cheeks were illuminated faintly, big, round eyes staring up at Alfie, waiting for a reaction.

Alfie exaggerated his munching, nodding his head eagerly. “Mm, yeah, it’s delicious ki—Charlie. You’ve done quite the good job here.” Charlie smiled toothily at him, laughed as Alfie plucked some marshmallow from the hairs above his top lip.

A good sign, Alfie thought, some of the tension had been relieved, which meant perh—

His analysis of the situation was interrupted by a tiny body hugging his leg, little face nuzzling into his thigh.

“Oh,” it was a lame reaction, but it had taken Alfie by complete surprise, and he was forced to focus on the knot suddenly forming in his throat rather than coming up with the proper thing to say.

He composed himself and picked Charlie up by the armpits, plopping him onto his own lap and ruffling his hair gently.

After a minute or two, the knot had been successfully untied, so Alfie said, “Did you know that when the stars blink, that means they’re talking to each other?” 

A story seemed like a better option than _Thanks for the reassurance, mate._


	66. sweat

Their one attempt at taking a bath together was a failed one, albeit memorable. 

Tommy had returned from tending to the stables, dirt streaked across his forehead, sweat from his chest soaking circles into his shirt, and the smell of horse shit trailing after him through the door. Alfie still squirmed in his chair at the sight.

‘Tommy—” he called out to him, “Tommy, now I don’t think—and realize that I am saying this for your own good—I just do not think you’ll manage to reach every patch of shit clinging to your back, yeah? It’d be impossible, right, judging by the absolutely fucking repulsive state you’re in at the moment, to thoroughly clean it all yourself.”

Tommy idled in front of him, his left brow arched high above the eye. “Express yourself, Alfie. Express yourself for once, in this forsaken life, like a fucking _normal_ person.” He knew exactly what Alfie was getting at—years of listening to his cryptic speech had trained Tommy to read in between the lines. But sometimes, it was just nice to hear Alfie lust for him explicitly.

Alfie grunted something undecipherable and burrowed himself deeper into the cushions, unrelenting, and Tommy simply rolled his eyes.

-

He’d dabbled with the idea of a joint bath a few times himself, but would rather be dead than make the offer. So Tommy was a hypocrite, but—damned as he was—it made no fucking difference to him.

The door to the bathroom had been left cracked open, because judging by the shuffling he’d heard on his way out, Alfie would make an appearance. 

It didn’t take long before he was craning his neck in through the door frame, the slightest of blushes dusting his cheeks. “Listen, mate—”

“Save yourself the embarrassment, Alfie.” Tommy spoke to the bar of soap in his hand, splashed water onto his shoulders with the other.

Alfie took that as his cue, and hobbled the rest of the way in, hovering above the tub for a few seconds before the scene of a wet Tommy registered entirely. He stripped his clothes off in a few, graceful motions. Alfie Solomons being _graceful_ —the things sexual arousal could do to a man.

-

The rest of the affair was far from elegant. It turned out that these bathtubs were not created for two broad men to sit in comfortably, and a considerable amount of water sloshed out over the side as Alfie stumbled into it. His initial intention had been to have Tommy sit between his spread legs, but he’d climbed in on the wrong side, and he would never fucking ask Tommy to _please move and make room_ for him. So once he’d slipped around to the point of exhaustion, and spewed a fair share of _fucking hells_ , he finally opted for sitting across from Tommy instead—letting their legs brush up against one another.

“A little more movement and we would’ve had to refill this—”

“Fuck off, Tommy, just—fuck off.”

-

Because Tommy was both more agile and equally weak in the face of temptation, he scrubbed at his forearms for a bit and eventually slid into the space Alfie had created. He passed the sponge over to him, instructing him to get the _back, hair and thighs_. One of those things was not like the other, yet innocent cleanliness was not the purpose behind these antics.

Alfie failed on the very first task, because he scrubbed in lines rather than in circles. “Does it really make a fucking difference?” Yes, it _did_ make a difference—it was the fine line between comfort and torture, and Alfie snagging his nails on Tommy’s skin did not improve the situation.

They survived it, somehow, so Alfie moved on to the hair, squirting some soap onto Tommy’s head. He moved in _circles_ this time, but his hyperfixation caused him to overlook the suds dripping down Tommy’s hairline. “Eyes, my fucking _eyes_ you bastard.” he yelped, rubbing at them with his fist.

Tommy snatched the sponge from Alfie and shifted back onto the other side of the tub, grumbling something about _never fucking doing this again_.

“But I haven’t washed your thighs yet.”

-

Tommy had to tug Alfie out of the tub in the end—right after he had sworn on everything he held dear to never tell a soul. “Don’t even fucking think about it in your spare time, do you understand? Do not fucking go around _recollecting_ it.”

And Tommy was terrified by the threat, he really was, because he did not even laugh when Alfie limped away into the bedroom, a giant, purple bruise already forming on his right asscheek.


	67. kairos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kairos καιρός (greek, n.) - the perfect, delicate, crucial moment; the fleeting rightness of time and place that creates the opportune atmosphere for action, words, or movement

May 24th was a very special day.

It marked the first annual Princess Fairy Tea Party—an event conjured up two days before by Ruby Shelby herself, who floated around her home the day of, collecting dishes and cookies in her pink, tulle dress. But of course, since it was organized on a Wednesday afternoon, everyone was _too busy_ to attend.

“Ask Alfie,” Tommy had shooed Ruby out of his office, “he’s retired now.” a word which meant that—she learned—Alfie had absolutely nothing better to do these days.

-

Once he moved past the cold tea Ruby had forced him to drink and the eyeliner pen she’d accidentally stuck into his eyeball when giving him his _fairy makeover_ , Alfie quite liked the little party. Granted, he had to kneel at the special table for fear of the tiny chairs crumbling beneath his weight—something his joints made sure he regretted—but the cookies were tasty, the company was pleasant and he learned _quite_ a bit of gossip about the ladies living in Ruby’s doll house. 

Lucy, for example, had cut Anna’s hair the other day—absolutely horrid. Alfie exaggerated his shock at the news. “And she managed to get her hands on some scissors?”

Ruby had scurried over to him then, leaning in to whisper, “It was actually me who cutted it, but I’m pretending.” Ah right, of course.

Charlie had mistakenly popped into the room at one point—he’d been trying to avoid being found at all costs.

“You can stay! We have an extra chair.” Ruby said, but Charlie only scoffed and claimed that this _wasn’t a very boy thing to do_.

Just like his damned father, Alfie thought, but kept it to himself—there were kids around, after all.

-

They managed to ambush Tommy towards the end of the day. Alfie had Ruby rehearse what she would say, giving her tips like _A bit whinier on the please_ or _Scrunch your nose more_ —it had to be perfect.

“Will you pretty please come join the tea party for only just a little, Daddy?” Her head just barely poked out from over the desk, long lashes batting at him dramatically. Tommy had his arms crossed, expression unimpressed and he looked to Alfie who parroted, “Oh yes, pretty please, _Daddy_.”

He rolled his eyes, but snatched the tiara from Ruby’s hand regardless, placing it atop of his head. “I’ve only got 10 minutes.” he explained, but that was enough. They had anticipated that answer, so a seat had been cleared for him at the table prior to them asking—dish and cup filled, dolls arranged, and the eyeliner laying open in his seat.

Ruby managed to not poke Tommy’s eye on this attempt—a feat which earned her thunderous applause from Alfie. She ran outside the lines a bit with the lip gloss, staining Tommy’s chin with sparkles, but it was actually quite a _good look_ , Alfie assured.

-

That night, once Tommy had successfully tucked his kids in—black smudges circling his eyes—Alfie was already in their bed flipping through a book. He flopped onto the mattress beside him, hand snaking under Alfie’s nightshirt, placing kisses to his neck.

Alfie gripped Tommy’s wrist, pulling the hand away. “Now wait a minute here, Tommy.”

Tommy looked to him, confused. This was usually enough to get Alfie going. “Right, where did your tiara disappear to then?” Tommy’s eyes screwed up instantly, starting to understand the implications. “We’re not doing this without it.” It was supposed to be delivered with a straight face—sarcasm was only effective then—but a small smile betrayed him. 

Though apparently Tommy did not find it very funny, because the last thing Alfie saw before the lights flicked off was a pillow heading for his face, and he felt the force of a fist pounding into his upper arm in the dark.


	68. rabbit

Taking a photo together turned out to be quite the ordeal for Tommy and Alfie.

Tommy had suggested they do it, one evening while they were eating dinner. He’d asked with a mouthful of food, as nonchalantly as possible, gulping down water right after the suggestion was made.

“A photo? What for?” Alfie was bluffing—he’d had the same idea before, relieved he himself wouldn’t have to ask anymore. 

“I don’t know, for a memory—or something. Just in case you’re killed in the meantime.”

“Or I choose to finally leave you, yeah?” And Tommy laughed, because the chances of that were zero.

-

They decided on a polaroid—the concept of only having one copy appealed to them both, though they had not anticipated the level of difficulty it would bring.

The issues started off with the angles. Considering the fact that they would never—under any circumstances—ask someone else to take a photo for them, Tommy was forced to stretch his arm out as far ahead of him as he could and click the button. He cut his own head out of the frame the first two times, missed half of Alfie’s in the third and held too high on the fourth, which meant he captured from the nose, up. That wasn’t _too_ bad of a final product, Alfie argued, but Tommy told him to stop being fucking ridiculous.

The following issue involved expressions. Obviously, neither of them were going to grin toothily into the lens, but this was supposed to be a ‘fond memory’—so why couldn’t Tommy try and look at least a bit more happy to be alive, rather than dead in the eyes? “I can’t fucking help it.” Tommy had started to whine, so Alfie let it go and decided he would just scribble in smile lines with a pen after the fact.

Alfie sneezed a lot after that. Blinked a few times. Decided he was unsatisfied with the way his hair looked in the 15th and 20th attempt—of course, the one _fucking_ time he cared about those types of things happened to be when they were running low on film. 

Their pile of discarded pictures slowly grew, Tommy’s frustration alongside it. But they finally managed one, on the very last shot. It wasn’t perfect in any way—a bit of Alfie’s ear had been clipped off and the lighting made the image look a little blurry—though they were relieved to have managed something.

They stood side by side, watching nervously as their faces emerged from the black blob. “What is that?” Tommy leaned in at one point, eyes squinting, brows furrowed.

You could barely see it, really, Alfie had been a tad late and the camera hadn’t properly focused in on it, but they were there, undoubtedly—two thick fingers peeking out from over Tommy’s head. Rabbit ears. Alfie had fucking made rabbit ears on him.

“Oh, you have _got_ to be _fucking_ kiddi—”


	69. ya’aburnee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ya’aburnee // يقبرني (arabic, phr.) - “you bury me”; wishing for a loved one to outlive you because of how unbearable life would be without them

They were eating breakfast in bed, a mix of burnt bacon—the turkey kind, of course—dried out scrambled eggs and some expired orange juice. Tommy was a horrendous cook, but he did not accept criticism of any kind. **  
**

It was a nice morning, birds chirping outside of their window—the sign of a excellent day. “Would you die for me, Alfie?” the question was posed casually by Tommy, more of a discussion topic rather than him desperately seeking reassurance.

“Already did that, mate.” Alfie scraped at the eggs on his plate.

“No, no, you died _by_ me—I killed you. That’s hardly the same thing.” Tommy responded, crunching through his bacon. Perhaps it _was_ time for some feedback, because the food was slowly becoming inedible. “And you didn’t even die really, seeing as you’re here squatting in my house right now.”

Alfie took a sip of the juice, face contorting into a grimace at the sourness of it, but there was a stubborn piece of egg lodged in his throat.

“Right, well it would depend on the situation, yeah? If it was some sort of toss-up—a ‘me instead of you’ kind of business—then I’d consider it, sure. But if you’re throwing your neck on the chopping block, all willy-nilly, then the answers gonna be no, mate. I won’t be caught wasting my time on that.” Tommy nodded in agreement—it was a fair assessment. “And you?”

“And I what?”

“Would you die for me, daft prick.”

Tommy pondered it whilst chewing his last bit of food. “Yes, I would prefer it if you outlived me.” He rephrased the question because _dying_ for someone seemed so unnecessarily dramatic.

“Right,” Alfie grumbled, “good.” he gulped the rest of the juice down, adjusting his back against the headboard. An uncomfortable silence followed, both of them staring off into the distance. In a roundabout way, they had both just admitted that their love for each other reached quite an extreme level—how were you supposed to follow up that kind of conversation?

It was getting a bit too awkward for Alfie’s liking, so he cleared his throat and said, “You know Tommy, I know you hate hearing this, but you’ve genuinely got to stop frying the life out of these things, it’s alre—”

“Yeah, you know I was thinking the same thing just now.” Tommy interrupted, grateful for the sudden change.

And it was exactly why both of them tread around these types of discussions, but they’d be lying if they said that the new information didn’t leave a warmth prickling inside of their chest.


	70. kilig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kilig (tagalog, n.) - the feeling of butterflies in your stomach, usually when something romantic takes place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> considering this has grown quite lengthy, i'm going to start a new "story" of these and just make the two pieces a series! so you'll be able to find what i write in the future in the 2nd half xx thank you to everyone who has been keeping up with these, all my love

Tommy bought Alfie flowers for his birthday on the fifth one they spent together. Tommy remembered, because he never did it again.

This specific bunch caught his eye as he passed a street vendor on his way home. It was a bouquet of slightly wilted white daisies—very simply, very plain. They would blend in with any background, perfect for Tommy’s intention which was to cause as little of a scene as possible. They would be virtually invisible, Tommy assured himself, regret already prickling his skin where the stems touched his hand.

They did not own a vase, and he felt too foolish to ask for one from Ada—who would undoubtedly pester him with a million more questions, along with some _oohs_ and _aahs_ —so he stuck the daisies into the tallest glass he could find. Practiced how he would hand them over to Alfie in the mirror.

-

He finally decided upon placing them in the middle of the table. It was the easiest solution—right in Alfie’s view when he’d step in through the door—and Tommy could avoid having to balance words with emotions, while also ensuring his hand was held steady.

When he noticed through the window that Alfie was climbing the top steps, he jumped into the armchair and popped open a book, knocking a stool over in the process.

Alfie didn’t notice until he was taking off his second shoe, squinted his eyes in the direction of the table and turned to Tommy. 

“What are those, Tommy?”

Without looking away from his reading, Tommy responded. “They’re usually referred to as flowers.”

Alfie threw his second shoe to the ground, huffing in agitation. “Yeah, mate, I know what they’re fucking called, I’m asking what they’re doing in my house.”

Tommy cleared his throat, “Happy birthday…..Alfie.” his voice hitched a bit at the end, but he heard Alfie lumbering over to the table to pick the glass up, chuckling softly. 

“ _Birthday_ —Did you snag these off some poor old granny somewhere, Tommy? Right, because I know you mate, and the things you do, but I’d never guessed you were immoral enough to steal shreds of happiness from the elderly.” He’d began to ramble—a coping mechanism for the wave of awkwardness washing over him. Alfie had never been good at accepting gifts, no matter how indirectly. 

“You can toss them if you want, Alfie. It doesn’t make any difference to me.” Even though it would make a _bit_ of a difference, Tommy thought—flowers were expensive these days. 

“Now I never sai—” Alfie grunted and stuck his nose into the yellow center of one of the daisies, a bit of pollen brushing off onto his skin. “I’m not going to toss perfectly good flowers.”

“Fine then. Don’t.”

“I won’t.”

“Ok.”

“Good.” Alfie hovered above the petals, eyes observing Tommy from under his lashes, trying to gauge any oncoming reactions. Tommy offered nothing, sitting calmly, so Alfie continued himself. “You know, Tommy, I think all of this romance you’re suddenly showering me with has shocked a butterfly or two awake in my stomach.” It wasn’t entirely a joke—getting flowers from Tommy Shelby was a once in a lifetime occurrence, Alfie was allowed to bask in it—but being presented with an opportunity to make him squirm in his seat was much rarer.

It worked, because he began chewing on his lip, eyes shooting up from his book and scanned Alfie from head to toe. The tip of Alfie’s nose had grown red, the skin around his eyes suddenly puffy, and a bit of a rash spreading along his neck that he was scraping at with his nails. 

“I think you’re confusing that with your allergies, Alfie.” he shrugged and turned his attention back to the pages, but rubbed a hand over his cheek to hide the blush nonetheless.

**Author's Note:**

> i'll post these as "chapters" with the titles being whatever word inspired the snippet. also feel free to follow me on tumblr @hardytcm ! xx


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